Divakiin!
by Speaker-to-Customers
Summary: A disillusioned WWE Diva (OC) makes an unwise wish and finds herself transported to a world where the fights are unscripted, to the death, and there's nowhere to shower afterwards. Hopefully a new spin on an old concept.
1. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

**One: The Girl with the** **Dragon** **Tattoo**

Rhiannon sat cross-legged on her hotel room bed, stroking an emery board over her nails, as she waited for her downloads of _Doctor Who_ and the _Strictly Come Dancing_ semi-final to finish. Being unable to watch them live, alongside her mum and dad, was one of the down sides to working mainly in America. Of course that paled beside being unable to get a proper cup of tea anywhere, even in hotels and restaurants, or a decent curry. And almost no-one understood why it was hysterically funny that Neville looked, and sounded, so much like Ross Noble.

The money made up for it, of course, and she did have a certain amount of fame. She was available as an action figure, and was a playable character in _WWE 2K16_ , and she had over a quarter of a million followers on Twitter. She'd had roles in three movies. Admittedly two of them had been straight-to-DVD sword-and-sorcery potboilers, and she'd always played basically the same role – pseudo-Celtic warrior woman who hit people with swords or axes and then died – but it had been fun anyway. And being announced as the WWE Divas Champion at Cardiff Motorpoint Arena, during WWE's recent whistle-stop Live Events tour of the British Isles, had been the proudest moment of her life.

But it was all hollow. She was champion only because a couple of badly-timed injuries had disrupted the planned storyline and she'd been put into the position as a stop-gap. Now the injured divas were fit again and Rhiannon was scheduled to lose the title at next week's Monday Night Raw. Normal service would be resumed, with the feud between Charlotte and Paige taking center stage, and Rhiannon would slip back into a supporting role. Quite possibly she'd be teamed with Paige, which wouldn't be bad in itself as she got on well with the English girl outside of kayfabe*, but she suspected that she'd be the second fiddle in the team and, inevitably, Paige would be scripted to betray Rhiannon eventually.

She had doubts about her long-term future in the WWE; perhaps she just wasn't flamboyant enough to be a real superstar. Sometimes she felt that the only thing that made her stand out from the crowd was the spectacular tattoo of a red dragon that covered her back, its wings stretching from one shoulder to the other, and that novelty (unlike the tattoo itself) was bound to wear off eventually.

And the Americans seemed to have a problem fitting a Welsh girl into their worldview; when she first moved up from NXT she'd been introduced as being from 'Wales, England' and, although Lilian Garcia had never made that mistake again, during Lilian's absence undergoing knee surgery her stand-in had announced Rhiannon as coming from 'Bethesda, Maryland' instead of 'Bethesda, Wales'. And then there'd been the recent TV appearance that had been really hard work because the host had been under the impression that he would be interviewing Rihanna…

She decided that she was satisfied with the state of her nails and slipped the emery board back into her little travelling manicure kit. She couldn't be bothered to get up and put the kit back into her case and so, as she was wearing only bra and pants, she tucked it into her bra for the moment. Then she turned back to her laptop. The downloads hadn't finished and she took a moment to look at the BBC News website to catch up on the news from Wales.

Flood alerts, and gale warnings, as the tail end of Storm Desmond continued to wreak havoc. She found nothing to indicate that her home town had been affected and the last e-mail from her parents had said that they were fine. She moved on to sports news and saw an article about the BBC Wales Sports Personality of the Year having been won, unsurprisingly, by Dan Biggar. She sighed.

There was no chance that she would ever be nominated for any similar award. Rhiannon knew she was a superbly-fit and highly-trained athlete, who would have been able to make a good showing in quite a few sports, but she'd followed in her father's footsteps and gone into professional wrestling. A 'sport' in name only, choreographed and planned out in advance, that would never be taken seriously. In the hierarchy of British sporting personalities Rhiannon knew that she ranked only marginally ahead of the glamor models who accompanied darts players to the stage at televised PDC events. Most of the time this didn't bother her, as the benefits more than made up for the lack of recognition, but occasionally it got to her and she envied those in conventional sport.

Her gaze strayed to the clock display at the corner of her laptop screen and she noticed that the time showed as 11.11. A fleeting memory of a superstition from her schooldays came to her mind. Supposedly if you happened to look at a digital clock at 11.11 in the morning, without having intended to do so, you could make a wish within that minute and it would come true. Complete nonsense, of course, but on the spur of the moment she played along.

"I wish I could be a champion somewhere where it really meant something," Rhiannon said aloud, with no expectation whatsoever that anything would happen.

A disembodied voice, seeming to come from everywhere around her at once and – weirdly – sounding very like John Cena, answered. "Granted!" it said, and then everything went black.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Her vision cleared and her surroundings swam into focus. She wasn't in the hotel bedroom, or anywhere else she recognized, but in some kind of horse-drawn open wooden cart. Beyond the cart she saw trees, snow-covered ground, and rocky hills. The cart jolted as it went over a bump in the road and the rough wood of its bench seating scraped uncomfortably against the skin of her bare back and thighs. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing just bra and pants and her hands were tied together with thick ropes.

There were other people in the cart with her; a driver, whose back was to her and who seemed to be clad in some sort of Roman legionary uniform; a big man dressed like some kind of Viking, in a quilted tunic – a gambeson, if Rhiannon remembered correctly – over light chain-mail armor, and who bore a slight resemblance to Triple H; a scrawny and unkempt specimen in a grubby tunic; and another big Viking type, in fine mail armor topped by a fur cloak, whose mouth was concealed by a cloth gag. All, except for the driver, had their hands bound. Behind the cart another Roman legionary type was riding a horse; to the front Rhiannon could see another two carts, also full of bound prisoners, and more horsemen.

"So, girl, you're finally awake," the ungagged Viking addressed her. "I was beginning to think you'd never come round. Were you attacked and robbed?"

"What?" Rhiannon looked around again. "Where am I?" She was confused, bewildered, and bloody cold. This didn't look at all like Philadelphia and yet she still felt as if she'd showered only minutes before and she could feel the manicure kit tucked under her bra. How could she have been whisked away somewhere else without a lot of time having passed?

"Falkreath Hold," the Viking answered, "on the road to Helgen, I think."

"What? Where?" The answer was completely meaningless to Rhiannon. Was this a movie set? Had she taken on another movie role and somehow lost her memory mid-shoot? But in that case why had nothing about her changed since she remembered being in her hotel room? Why wasn't she in faux-Viking or Roman costume like the people around her? And wouldn't a Vikings versus Romans movie be idiotic even for the SyFy Channel? Well, maybe not. "What's going on?"

"We are prisoners of the Imperials," the Viking said, "and I suspect we are on the way to the block. They do not treat captured Stormcloaks kindly."

All completely meaningless to Rhiannon. "I don't know the script," she complained. "I don't understand. What am I supposed to do?"

"Maybe they'll let you go," said the Viking, "if they realize that you're not a Stormcloak. I wouldn't bet on it, though. We were gathered around you, wondering what an unconscious and unclad woman was doing on the trail, when the Imperials attacked. I thought at first that you were an Imperial spy, planted there to distract us from their ambush, but then they bound you and tossed you in here with the rest of us. That implies that you'll get the same treatment as we will. Execution, most likely."

"They can't execute me!" the unkempt man protested. "I'm not a Stormcloak. I'm just a horse-thief. I would have been half-way to Hammerfell if the Imperials hadn't swept me up along with you. You have to tell them I'm not with you."

"Very well," said the Viking, "but I doubt if they'll care. We're all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief, and we will share the same fate."

"Shut up, you back there!" the driver called.

The thief ignored him. "What's up with him with the gag?" he asked.

"Watch your tongue, thief," the Viking growled. "That is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? Leader of the rebellion? Oh, by the Divines, they really are going to execute us! This can't be happening. I don't belong here. Jail, fair enough, but not the block. Not for horse theft."

"You were in the wrong place at the wrong time, like the girl," said the Viking, "and that is your bad luck. What village are you from?"

"Why do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home," said the Viking, "and you will be on your way to Sovngarde soon enough."

"Rorikstead. I'm from Rorikstead," said the thief.

"What about you, girl? You look more like a Breton than a Nord, but I've never seen a Breton girl anywhere close to your height. And I've never heard an accent like yours before." The Viking's own accent sounded vaguely Scandinavian to Rhiannon but she couldn't tie it to any specific nationality.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Breton? Someone from Britanny? How would that fit in with a Vikings versus Romans scenario? "I'm from Bethesda, near Bangor, in Gwynned, North Wales."

"Never heard of it," said the Viking, "but it sounds vaguely Breton. You came to Skyrim at the wrong time, girl."

The convoy had travelled out of the area where snow lay on the ground and now was drawing near to what appeared to be a fortified medieval village. A stone wall surrounded it, the rough road entering through a gateway with the gates being of heavy wooden beams, and inside there were a number of wooden buildings and the stone towers of some kind of keep. A soldier atop the wall called out to the horsemen leading the procession.

"General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!"

"Good," one of the horsemen replied. "Let's get this over with."

"Look at him," said the Viking. "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this." All totally meaningless to Rhiannon. "This is Helgen, as I thought," the Viking continued. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in? Funny… when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

To Rhiannon this sounded like the sort of exposition a mediocre movie would use to give the audience some background on the setting. Except that she couldn't see any microphones, camera crews, or any of the other paraphernalia she'd seen in her movie work. As they entered the village everything she saw was consistent with it being an actual settlement, with genuine inhabitants, rather than a movie set where only those parts in front of the camera would be authentic. Some of the villagers called out to the soldiers, and made comments to each other, but she missed most of them because she was concentrating on looking for cameras and the like. Those she did hear she didn't understand.

The wagons came to a halt and their occupants were hustled out, by pseudo-Roman soldiers, and formed up into two lines. A fairly tall and well-muscled man in Roman-style leather armor stood in front of them holding an open book and a quill pen. He didn't look very Roman, with hair the same reddish-brown as Rhiannon's would be without enhancement from L'Oréal Paris, so presumably a Germanic or Celtic auxiliary. Beside him a much shorter woman, wearing armor that resembled the Roman _lorica segmentata_ and a helmet with a tall crest, stood and shouted out orders.

"Step forward when we call your name! One at a time!"

"Empire loves their damn lists," muttered the Viking.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," called the man with the pen. The gagged man walked forward and a tick was made in the book.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," the Viking called out. Ulfric dipped his head, obviously unable to reply in any other way, and then was led off to one side.

"Ralof of Riverwood," the man marking the lists continued. The Viking who had been talking to Rhiannon strode forward, his name was marked off, and he was moved on.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No!" cried the thief. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!" He leapt away from the line, sprinted past the woman officer and the muscular clerk, and ran off through the village.

"Halt!" shouted the officer and then, as the thief ignored her and ran on, "Archers!"

A Roman soldier with a bow loosed a shaft and it struck the thief in the middle of the back. He fell to the ground, twitched a few times, and then lay still.

Rhiannon gulped. She'd seen the tricks used on film sets to simulate people being hit by arrows and she couldn't see how any of them could have been used here. The arrow looked to have sunk into the thief's back to half the length of the shaft and, as far as she could tell, he'd really been shot dead.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the officer growled. No-one answered.

"You there. The woman without clothes," said the man with the book. "Step forward." Rhiannon obeyed. "Who are you?"

"I'm Rhiannon," she answered. "The WWE Divas Champion. And I have no idea what's going on."

"Are you a Breton? You look like one but you're as tall as a Nord," the soldier went on. "A camp follower, I would guess, from your lack of clothing. You picked the wrong people to follow." He turned to the officer. "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list."

"Who cares about a camp follower?" the captain sneered. "She goes to the block."

"By your orders, Captain," said the man with the lists, and then he turned back to Rhiannon. "I'm sorry," he said. "It seems unfair but there's nothing I can do. We'll try to return your remains to your people."

"Hurry it up," the captain snapped. A soldier pushed Rhiannon to the side and she joined the Viking, Ralof, and the gagged Jarl Ulfric. Other prisoners were processed and added to the group. Not far away Rhiannon could see a wooden block and, standing beside it, a powerfully-built man holding a huge single-bladed axe. He was wearing a black hood covering all of his head except for an eye slit; an executioner's hood.

A grey-haired officer, wearing molded leather armor with gilded decorative insets, stood in front of them facing Jarl Ulfric. He was much shorter than the gagged Viking chieftain but looked tough and grim. "Ulfric Stormcloak," he addressed the Jarl. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

The gagged Jarl could only grunt in reply.

"You started this war," the officer continued, "plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace."

A roaring noise sounded in the distance. Rhiannon couldn't tell what it was and, from the way they reacted, neither could the other people around her. Everyone, prisoners and guards alike, looked around and up at the sky.

"What was that?" the man who had been marking off names in the book exclaimed.

"It's nothing," said the grey-haired officer. "Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," said the woman captain. "Give them their last rites." She walked over to the wooden block and stood waiting.

A woman in robes began to recite blessings and the names of gods that meant nothing at all to Rhiannon. The recitation was interrupted by one of the prisoners striding forward.

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," said the man in Viking-style armor.

"As you wish," the woman, presumably some sort of priestess, said. The Viking strode over to the block and knelt down in front of it. The woman officer put her foot on his back and pushed him down so that his head and neck rested on the wooden surface.

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials," said the prisoner. "Can you say the same?"

"Executioner!" the captain snapped out. The big man swung his axe up and then brought it down.

Rhiannon gasped as she saw the blade chop through the prisoner's neck. The man's head fell free, into a basket, and a massive gout of blood spurted forth and soaked the ground. This couldn't have been faked. Unless… a shorter man with an animatronic false head? No, she'd had too clear a view of him as he moved and spoke. It was real. The thief, and now this man, really had been killed.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof said.

"Next, the camp follower!" the captain shouted, as she used her foot to push the corpse's torso aside from the block.

They were going to kill her. Rhiannon could feel herself shivering and not from the cold. What was this, a snuff movie? She'd always been sure such things were an urban legend. And it made no sense. Kidnapping someone as high-profile as her, whose disappearance was bound to attract a lot of attention and serious investigation, and then killing her off in a single scene? It was crazy. Surely a homeless person, or maybe a hooker, would be a lot less risky to snatch and kill. Why take the extra risk without at least giving her some wrestling scenes before they killed her? And the Viking-type seemed to have gone willingly to his death. She didn't understand at all.

But she wasn't going to 'go gently into that good night'. The first soldier who approached her was met with a knee to the groin and a head-butt into the middle of his face; not pulled at the last instant, as she did in the ring, but with everything she had. The man went down as if shot and writhed on the ground with his nose smashed to pulp and his face becoming a mask of blood.

"Brave girl," Ralof said, approvingly, but her resistance was of no avail. With her hands bound she couldn't stop two other soldiers seizing her by the arms and dragging her forward. She struggled, and spat out curses both in English and in Welsh, but she was hustled to the block and forced to her knees.

The roaring noise sounded again, this time seemingly much closer, and it caused some consternation among the soldiers. Rhiannon paid it no attention; she had other things to worry about. The woman captain put her foot on Rhiannon's back and pushed her down, onto the blood-stained wooden block, and the executioner raised his axe again.

"What in Oblivion is that?" exclaimed General Tullius.

"Sentries! What do you see?" called the captain.

Past the headsman Rhiannon could see a stone tower. A massive winged creature, black as night, swooped down through the clouds and landed on the building with an impact that shook the ground. The headsman stumbled, dropped his axe, and it fell past Rhiannon's head without touching her. The pressure of the captain's foot on her back was gone.

"Dragon!" someone yelled.

The creature, and yes it did look like a dragon, seemed to stare directly at Rhiannon. It opened its huge, fanged, maw and spoke in a deep, rasping, voice. " _Joor lost ilir do dovah nau ek zek_ ," it said. "Z _urun_ *."

The headsman recovered his footing, bent down, and picked up his axe again. Then the dragon spoke again, louder, its voice like a thunder-clap and the words indistinct. Some kind of energy pulse came out of its mouth and struck the executioner. He was blasted backward and out of Rhiannon's sight. She heard the general shouting "Get the townspeople to safety!" and then the dragon roared again. Flaming rocks began to fall from the sky and everyone around, soldiers and prisoners alike, scattered.

"Hey, girl! Rhiannon! Get up," Ralof called, as he ran past the block. "Come on, the gods won't give us another chance! This way!" He turned and ran.

Rhiannon got to her feet and ran after the Viking. She tried to make sense of what she had seen. A dragon? It couldn't be CGI, not if they were seeing it in actuality, and she couldn't see how it could be a hologram. And how could an animatronic creature have flown? Some kind of flying machine? But flapping wings were far too complex for existing technology on anything but a very small scale. It had every appearance of being horribly real.

She followed Ralof across the courtyard, through a door, and into a tower. A few of the Viking types – Stormcloaks – were already there and another ran in just behind her. One, a woman, was huddled on the floor moaning. The others were busy untying their comrades' bonds and taking weapons from racks that stood against the wall.

"Jarl Ulfric!" Ralof said. "What is that thing? Could the legends be true?" He held out his hands and another freed prisoner began to untie him.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric, no longer gagged, replied. "The Imperials will follow us here. We need to move. Now!"

"Up through the tower!" Ralof said. "Let's go. This way, girl!" He started to climb a flight of stairs. Rhiannon held out her hands but no-one offered to untie her. She grimaced and followed Ralof up the stairs.

"Ralof! Help me," the Stormcloak woman who had been lying on the floor called. She had risen, and begun to climb the stairs, but it appeared she had an injured leg and was having difficulty walking.

"You carry on up," Ralof said to Rhiannon, and she continued on as Ralof turned back. Then, with a tremendous crashing noise, the wall of the tower burst inwards between her and Ralof. The dragon's snout appeared in the gap.

" _Yol Toor Shul_!" the dragon roared, and a jet of flame shot from its mouth and into the tower. It missed Rhiannon, and Ralof, but enveloped the injured Stormcloak woman and she tumbled, screaming, down the staircase. The dragon pulled its head back and moved on.

Ahead of Rhiannon the staircase had collapsed, making onward progress impossible, and behind her a pile of fallen stone blocks cut her off from Ralof and the other Stormcloaks. She looked out through the gap in the wall and saw no sign of the dragon in the immediate vicinity. Roman – no, Imperial – archers were firing, presumably at the beast, but she couldn't see their target.

"See the inn on the other side?" Ralof called up to her. "Jump through the roof and keep going. We'll follow you when we can."

Rhiannon looked over at the building, now lacking most of its roof, which must have been the inn to which Ralof referred. Some of its timbers were alight but the flames were still relatively small. It would be quite a drop but falling without hurting herself was a skill at which Rhiannon excelled. She leapt.

She rolled on landing and, even with her hands bound, came to her feet all as part of the same move. Briefly she considered trying to burn away the ropes against the smoldering timbers but decided she was likely to injure herself in the attempt. Instead she jumped down through the shattered wall of the inn and out onto the courtyard once more.

She was now back not far away from where she had started, making the flight into the tower seem almost pointless, and there were Imperial soldiers all around. None of them seemed interested in attacking her, however, as their attention was concentrated on the dragon. Civilians, their garb not dissimilar to that of the Saxon peasants in the most recent movie she had acted in, were running around in screaming panic. Rhiannon felt like doing the same.

The Imperial soldier who had been marking off the names against a list came into her view. He seemed to be trying to organize the fleeing civilians and get them to safety. "Still alive, girl? Keep close to me if you want to stay that way," he addressed her, and then turned to an elderly man who wore armor not matching that of either the Imperials or the Stormcloaks. "Gunnar, take care of the boy. I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," said the old man.

The soldier, presumably Hadvar, ran off and, not knowing what else to do, Rhiannon followed. They headed in the direction of the main gate and she saw a group of Imperial soldiers ahead of them. The general was there, shouting orders, and then the dragon swooped down again and incinerated a soldier just ahead of them.

Rhiannon could smell burning flesh. She barely managed to hold herself back from vomiting, and then only just avoided a jet of flame from the dragon, and when she recovered herself she could see no sign of the general's soldiers and a wall of flame between herself and the village gate.

"This way!" Hadvar called to her. "Into the keep."

Rhiannon followed him again. They passed archers aiming up at the dragon and, to Rhiannon's amazement, a soldier who was sending jets of fire from his hands in the direction of the creature. She couldn't see any sign of any apparatus that could be producing the flame, or tanks holding flammable gas, and had no idea how he could be doing it. Then again she had no idea how the dragon could exist.

But everything seemed to be horribly real. She saw burnt corpses, and bodies that seemed to have been bitten in half, and living people with horrible injuries that would have required hours of make-up and prosthetics to fake. Some of them she had seen, alive and uninjured, only minutes before. This was all impossible but it was really happening. She couldn't be dreaming; a couple of minor burns were smarting painfully, and she was still feeling the chill of being outdoors in her underwear, and she'd never experienced any dreams in which she felt cold or in pain. And the smells…

"Ralof! You damned traitor! Out of my way!" Hadvar yelled. Rhiannon saw Ralof, a sword in his hand, ahead of them.

"We're escaping, Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time," Ralof called back.

"Fine!" said Hadvar. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde."

"You! Girl!" Ralof called. "Come on. Follow me!"

"With me, girl!" Hadvar said. "To the keep! We need to get inside."

Both men ran off in opposite directions. Rhiannon hesitated for a moment and then was distracted by seeing the dragon swooping down again. It passed by and attacked somewhere else. When she looked again she had lost sight of Ralof and so she ran after Hadvar. She followed him through a door and into the keep.

She found herself in what appeared to be a barrack room, with beds and equipment chests, with no other people there except for herself and Hadvar.

"Was that really a dragon?" Hadvar muttered. "The harbinger of the End Times? And why do you have a picture of a dragon on your back?"

"It's the emblem of my country," Rhiannon said. "They don't really exist. Do they?"

"That one does," said Hadvar. "It killed a lot of good people. And nearly us, too. Come here. Let me see if I can get those bindings off you."

Rhiannon held out her hands and Hadvar drew a dagger and sawed at the ropes. After half a minute they parted and Rhiannon was able to free herself. She tossed the remnants of the bonds to the ground, revealing that she still wore her watch, and flexed her fingers. A glance at the dial showed the time as 1:55 and the date, just as it had shown when she last looked at it, was the 14th. Either a whole month had passed, someone had fiddled with her watch, or almost no time had passed at all between being in the hotel room and being in the cart.

"There should be some clothing and armor in those chests," Hadvar said, sheathing his sword. "Find something and put it on. Even a camp follower shouldn't be wandering around nearly naked."

Rhiannon detected a note of contempt in his voice and felt a sudden flare of anger. She grabbed Hadvar's right hand, put it in a gooseneck lock, and twisted his arm around. She raised a leg, brought it down on his arm, and forced him downward before he could do anything with his other arm. He tried to resist, and she could tell that he was a strong man, but against the leverage she was applying he could do nothing and ended up face down, on the floor, with his arm locked in a position where Rhiannon could snap it like a twig with a minimum of effort.

"Apologize, _pen-coc*_ , or I'll break your arm," Rhiannon growled. "I'm not a bloody whore, right?"

Hadvar strained for a second, realized it was futile, and relaxed. "You have my apologies, my lady," he said, in what sounded like genuine contrition. "You are a warrior. I should have known from what you did to Caius. If your clothes were taken from you by soldiers of the Legion I shall see that they are punished – if the dragon has not killed them already. Or was it the Stormcloaks who stripped you of your clothes?"

Rhiannon released him and stepped back. "I had a shower – a bath," she amended, guessing that if this really was some kind of medieval environment showers would be unfamiliar, "and I'd only just started getting dressed afterwards. And then I found myself… here, wherever this is, tied up, in a cart, with people I'd never met. And your people were going to cut off my fucking head! I have no idea what is going on, or who Stormcloaks and Imperials are, or why you're fighting, or anything." She managed to stop herself from bursting into tears and took a deep breath. "I just want to go home. Or at least back to the hotel in Philadelphia."

Hadvar got to his feet and grimaced as he flexed his arm. "I don't know that place," he said. "By the divines, you're strong, girl – my lady. Grab yourself some armor and a sword. I'll look for something for our burns."

Finding some clothes seemed an eminently sensible idea and she wouldn't say no to some armor. Yes, she was used to fighting in a costume that didn't cover much more than her underwear, but in the ring her opponents didn't have swords, axes, and bows and arrows. And they weren't fire-breathing dragons. She made her way to the nearest chest, found it empty, and moved on to the next. In that one she found a tunic like the one worn by the late thief, a helmet of stiff leather, and a few gold coins. She pulled on the tunic; it was big enough, if ugly and shapeless, and might at least keep her a little warmer. The helmet she ignored, as she doubted it would provide much protection and it might obscure her vision, but she scooped up the coins and took a quick look at one.

It wasn't any currency she recognized. On one side it bore a head in profile, presumably that of some sort of Caesar, and on the other an emblem that appeared to be a highly stylized figure of a rearing dragon. The coins looked like real gold, which would be unlikely in mere movie props, but she didn't know how to tell for sure. She had a vague memory of hearing Stephen Fry on _QI_ saying that the popular idea that you could tell by biting them was a myth but that was all. There were no pockets in the tunic and so, although she thought the coins could well come in useful, she dropped them back into the chest and moved on.

The next chest held a brown leather jerkin, styled like Hadvar's leather armor but lacking the mail reinforcements, and a pair of boots. She wriggled into the armor, which was tight across her breasts but otherwise more or less fit her, and then tried the boots. They were a little tight, and uncomfortable without socks, but she'd put up with that rather than walk barefoot on the cold stone floor. There was a pouch on the outside of the armor and so she doubled back and retrieved the coins. A few more coins on top of a table caught her eye and she took those also.

"I can't find any healing potions," Hadvar said, "so we'll just have to endure the burns a while longer. Here, take this." He held out a scabbarded sword to her.

"It's dangerous to go alone," Rhiannon said, as she took it, unable to resist quoting the Internet meme about _The Legend of Zelda_.

"That may well be," Hadvar said, frowning. "It doesn't look like anyone else is coming in here, though, so we'd best move on. There's a back way out and hopefully the dragon won't be watching that way."

Rhiannon drew the sword from the scabbard and examined it. The blade was longer than Hadvar's, more like a Viking or Saxon sword than his Roman gladius, but didn't seem to be as well-made as the replica swords she'd seen and handled on movie sets. She sheathed it again and fastened it to the armor's sword-belt. "I thought you were going to join General – Tullius? – and help with the defense," she said.

"That was my intention," said Hadvar, "but he shouted for me to save myself. I think he managed to make it out the gate. I hope so, anyway. Without him Skyrim will be in trouble." The outer wall of the building shook and a set of antlers, mounted on a column supporting the roof, came loose and fell to the ground. "The dragon's still attacking. Let's get out of here quickly." He turned and led the way through a doorway, out of the room, and along a stone-flagged corridor. Flaming torches, in brackets set into the walls, provided illumination.

They reached another doorway, with a gate of wooden bars blocking access, and from beyond it they heard voices.

"We need to get moving! That dragon is tearing up the whole keep!" a male voice yelled.

"Just give me a minute to catch my breath," a quieter female voice answered.

"Stormcloaks," Hadvar said. "Maybe we can reason with them." He pulled on a chain set into the wall, the gate slid down, and he stepped through and into the room beyond. "Hold on," he said, holding up empty hands. "We only want to…"

As Rhiannon followed him she saw two warriors in Stormcloak gear. Before Hadvar could finish his sentence they charged at him with weapons raised. Hadvar at once drew his sword but before he could get it free of the scabbard the Stormcloak man swung a massive war hammer at his head.

Rhiannon launched herself at the Stormcloak in a flying tackle. She sent him crashing to the ground, his hammer-blow going nowhere near Hadvar, and then she rolled away before the other Stormcloak, a woman armed with a hatchet and a shield, could attack her. She came to her feet and saw Hadvar stabbing down at the Stormcloak man, trying to finish him before he could get his hammer back into a fighting position, but then the woman closed in on her and she had to avoid a swing from the axe.

"Use your sword, girl!" Hadvar shouted.

Rhiannon backed off, drew the sword, and tried to parry another axe blow. She'd only ever used a sword in movies, where the fights were even more strictly choreographed than wrestling matches, but the parry was successful anyway. Then she thought she saw an opening and brought her foot up and around in a kick to the body. The woman interposed her shield, blocked the kick with ease, and struck with the axe again.

Again Rhiannon parried successfully and, by now, Hadvar had finished off the hammer-wielder and he came to her aid. He struck to the Stormcloak woman's neck and she went down with the wound gushing blood. She writhed on the floor for a moment, Hadvar struck again, and she lay still.

"Why didn't you stab her?" Hadvar snapped. "You handle your sword well but she was wide open to a thrust and you tried to kick her!"

"I'm a _wrestler_!" Rhiannon wailed. "I've never killed anyone. I've only used a sword in movies."

"In what?" Hadvar said, frowning in what appeared to be genuine puzzlement.

"Acting in plays," Rhiannon explained. "On… stage."

"Well, you'll have to learn fast," Hadvar said, "because the foes here won't be acting. But the moves you've learnt with a wooden sword should work with a real one."

"The pointy end goes into the other man," Rhiannon said, quoting from _The Mask of Zorro_ , and trying to control her shaking.

"That's right," Hadvar said. "You saved my life there. It would be a shame for you to get killed."

"I won't argue with that," Rhiannon said. She stared down at the bodies in horrified fascination. They were really dead, or dying, she was sure. The wounds were plainly visible, there was no technical trickery, this was all real. Impossible, but real.

"Take the shield," Hadvar suggested, and Rhiannon took his advice. She put her left arm through its straps and hoped that it would work the same way as in the movies. And not like her most recent role, in the not-yet-released low-budget movie _Whiteblade_ , in which King Oswald of Northumbria had cleaved through her prop shield and, with the aid of a concealed blood-bag, had given her a convincing death scene.

Hadvar led the way onward, down a flight of stone stairs, and along a corridor that suddenly collapsed in front of them. The dragon, it seemed, was still in the process of demolishing the settlement. When the dust died down they turned back and Hadvar opened a door that led into another, much larger, room. Barrels were stacked against the walls and the bodies of pheasants and rabbits hung from the ceiling. And, just like in the previous room, there were a pair of Stormcloaks ahead of them.

"The Imperials might have potions in here," one was saying. "We're going to need them."

Once again Hadvar tried to make a peaceful approach and, like before, the Stormcloaks ignored his words and attacked. This time, however, he had his sword ready and was able to defend himself. He was at a disadvantage, however, fighting one-handed with a gladius against a long two-handed blade. Hadvar was driven back away from Rhiannon.

She had troubles of her own. Her opponent, too, was wielding a great-sword and when she blocked his first swing with her shield it sent a numbing shock through her arm. "So you are an Imperial spy!" the man hissed. "I'll kill you, traitor!"

His sword swept around again and Rhiannon made a frantic leap backward to evade it. The Stormcloak followed up immediately, raising his sword to strike, and Rhiannon sensed that the wall of the room was now too close behind her for her to retreat again. Instead she went sideways and the great-sword narrowly missed her shoulder and scraped down the stone wall. For a moment he was off-balance and in no position to defend himself. She didn't want to kill him, even though he was trying to kill her, when she knew nothing of the rights and wrongs of this incomprehensible conflict. She performed a leg-sweep and, as he went down, hit him on the back of the head with the pommel of her sword. Then she ran to assist Hadvar.

He was in dire peril, down on one knee, trying desperately to fend off blow after blow from the longer weapon. His gladius went flying as a powerful swing knocked it from his hand. The Stormcloak started to bring his sword down in what surely would be a lethal stroke. Rhiannon was closing fast but there was no way she could get past him to parry the blow, even trying another flying tackle would be too late, and there was only one thing she could do that might be in time.

She thrust out her sword in front of her and, at a full run, rammed the point into the Stormcloak's back. With the impetus of her charge behind it the blade went through his armor, as if it was tissue-paper, and sank deep into his body. The great-sword fell from his hands, striking Hadvar's shoulder as it fell but not cutting through his armor, and the Stormcloak dropped to his knees. Rhiannon collided with him, knocking him to the ground, and she lost her grip on the sword. He rolled over, revealing that the point of the sword was sticking out of his chest, writhed briefly, and then was still.

Rhiannon stood, shaking, looking down at him. "I've killed someone!" she gasped. "I… killed… him. I don't… I didn't… oh, God, I've killed a man."

Hadvar got to his feet. "You saved my life again," he said. "It was lucky for me that you chose to follow me into the keep. I am in your debt." He retrieved his own sword and then wrenched Rhiannon's sword from the corpse. He handed it to her and she took it, looked at the blood-smeared blade, and retched but managed to stop herself just short of vomiting.

"I've killed a man," she said again, and the sword wobbled in her hand as she trembled. "This… can't be happening. I want to go home."

"No good person likes killing," Hadvar said, "but it is necessary in a war. Rest for a moment and recover your bearings. I'm going to search the room for healing potions. This is a store-room and the Stormcloaks were right that there should be some potions here."

Rhiannon stared at the blood on the sword, unable to look away, as Hadvar headed off. She didn't even notice when he delivered a coup-de-grace to the Stormcloak she had left unconscious at the other side of the room. Eventually he returned, his hands full of small bottles, to find her still standing there with tears trickling down her cheeks. She didn't react when he spoke to her.

Cautiously – no-one would want to startle someone holding a naked sword – he reached out and gently shook her shoulder. "Girl… Rhiadda… come to your senses," he said.

She shook herself and turned her head to look at him. "Rhiannon," she corrected him, and then her gaze drifted back to the sword. "Aslan scolded Peter for not cleaning his sword," she murmured. "Whatever happens, never forget to wipe your sword, he said."

"Not a bad rule to follow," Hadvar agreed. He dug a piece of cloth, already blood-stained from wiping his own sword, out of his pouch and proffered it.

Rhiannon started to raise her left arm, encumbered by the shield, but then winced and shook the shield free. She looked at her bruised forearm, winced again, and took the cloth.

"I have found some Potions of Minor Healing," Hadvar said, as Rhiannon wiped clean her sword. "One of them should clear up that bruising and any burns you may have."

"Potions of Healing? Like in Dungeons & Dragons, is it?" Not that Rhiannon had any deep knowledge of the game but she'd played it for a while, with school-friends, until most of them got bored and the gaming group drifted apart.

"What? Yes, there are dungeons in the keep – just a little further down, in fact – and a dragon rampaging outside. I don't know what that has to do with these potions. Are you going to take one or not?"

Rhiannon sheathed her sword and exchanged the cloth for the bottle that Hadvar was offering. She pried off the cork stopper, put the bottle to her lips, and sipped at it. The taste was mildly unpleasant, rather like moldy bread, but she put up with it and drained the bottle. The effect was immediate. Her arm stopped hurting, the discomfort in her feet eased, and the smarting from places where burning embers had touched her skin cleared up. Her eyes widened. "It works!" she exclaimed. "That's incredible!"

"Your homeland must be far away indeed if you don't know about healing potions," Hadvar said. He scratched his head. "We'll talk about that later. Damn. There was an iron shield back in that room where we first fought Stormcloaks and I didn't think to pick it up. I could have used it in this fight but I don't want to waste time going back for it."

Rhiannon saw that the man she'd killed had a sword at his belt as well as the two-handed sword that he'd used in the fight. "Take my shield," she suggested. "I've used two swords in a… play. If you'd get that one for me… I… don't want to touch a… dead body."

"You'd better get over that squeamishness if you want to survive," Hadvar said, but he retrieved the sword and scabbard for her anyway. "Keep these in your pouch," he went on, passing her three more bottles. "You might need them later. I've kept a few for myself."

"Thanks," Rhiannon said. The bottles were crude by the standards she was used to but the glass was thick and she didn't think they'd break easily. She used the cleaning cloth to pad them in her pouch and grimaced as she touched the blood-stained material. Then she buckled on the second sword, drew both weapons, and ran through a couple of moves. Of course the two movies in which she'd dual-wielded had been the least historically accurate and the style had been chosen simply because it looked cool. Whether it would work in real life, or not, was another matter but she hadn't done well with the shield and she thought she might as well give dual-wielding a try. Or, better still, avoid getting into any more fights.

Like that was going to work.

The next room they entered must have been the dungeon that Hadvar had mentioned. There were cages there, some empty but others holding corpses, and a skeleton hanging from manacles fastened to the wall. Three dead bodies lay in pools of blood on the floor; two Imperials and a Stormcloak.

"Still Stormcloaks ahead of us," Hadvar muttered. "They must have come through the other passage before it was blocked. Let's hope either they see reason or they've made it all the way out before we get to the exit." He bent down and scooped up a bow from the floor. "This could come in very useful," he said, and then unfastened a quiver, containing a few arrows, from the back of the dead Stormcloak. "Have you ever used a bow, girl – Rhiannon?"

"Only at targets, and only a few times," Rhiannon admitted. She'd been enthusiastic about archery, seeing it as part of her Welsh heritage, but there hadn't been much opportunity on the film sets for more than a few practice shafts to help her look moderately convincing when pretending to use a bow during shooting. She had done quite well at targets, for an absolute beginner, but a moving target was likely to be a whole lot harder.

"I'll keep this, then," Hadvar said. "But you'd better put these on, just in case I fall and you have to take up the bow." He stripped a pair of leather wrist protectors from one of the fallen Imperials and handed them to her. "Now, what's this?" he mused, as Rhiannon donned the bracers. "Mage robes? They could be quite valuable. And is this a spell book?"

He found a knapsack on a table and packed the book and the clothing into it. "Take this," he said. "If we get out of here alive you're going to need funds. You should be able to sell the contents for enough to pay for board and lodging long enough for you to find work."

"What about you?" Rhiannon asked.

"I have my Legion pay," Hadvar said. "Once I can get to Solitude, and rejoin my unit, I'll be fine. You need this more than me."

Rhiannon's priority, after getting out of this place, would be to find a phone. Once she could get in touch with the WWE management, or the FBI, or her parents she was sure it wouldn't take too long before someone rescued her. But if this weird Dark Ages enclave was large enough, and had some sort of functioning parallel economy, local currency indeed would be handy. Vital, even. And the backpack could prove very useful.

Onward again, past more cages and prison cells, and out into a cavern that seemed to be mostly natural except for a paved path. A stone bridge crossed a little stream that ran through the middle of the open area. And beyond it were yet more Stormcloaks; four of them, three men and one woman.

"We should wait for Jarl Ulfric," one was saying.

"I don't think he came this way," another replied, and Rhiannon recognized the voice. Ralof. "It's best we press on and find a way out. These passages have to lead somewhere." He broke off and turned as he sensed the approach of Hadvar and Rhiannon.

"Imperials!" another Stormcloak hissed. "That woman – I knew she was an Imperial spy." He unslung a bow from his shoulder.

"Then why were the Imperials going to cut off her head?" Ralof pointed out. "You, girl, why did you go with Hadvar?"

"I lost sight of you," Rhiannon explained, "and I didn't know what else to do. I'm only wearing this armor because I needed to wear something. I'm not an Imperial or a Stormcloak. I don't know what you're fighting about. I just want to go home."

"And I just want to get out of here, Ralof," Hadvar said. "I'll fight if I have to but I'd be happy to agree a truce."

"Of course you would, outnumbered four to two," said the male Stormcloak who had wanted to wait for Ulfric. "Let's just kill them and move on. Or, better still, kill the man and take the girl with us. We could have some fun with her later."

"You are without honor!" Ralof growled. "No true Nord would make such a vile suggestion."

The Stormcloak woman levelled her sword, not pointed at Hadvar or Rhiannon, but at the man who'd wanted to take Rhiannon captive. "Take that back, Jurgald, or fight me!" she snapped.

The man lowered his head. "I… apologize," he said, not sounding terribly sincere to Rhiannon. "Make a truce with these Imperials if you must, Ralof, but don't blame me if they turn on you."

"Hadvar was my friend, once," Ralof said, "and a good man, even if his loyalties are misplaced. Very well, Hadvar, it is a truce until we are out of here and part ways."

"Truce, then," said Hadvar. He pointed toward an archway on the far side of the bridge. "The way out should be that way. I've never been down here myself but I know there's a secret escape route, hidden from the outside, and this must be it."

Beyond the archway was a raised drawbridge, which made sense if this was a secret way out; the garrison wouldn't have wanted it to provide easy access to the keep. Hadvar operated a lever to drop the drawbridge and it fell open across a deep, steep-sided, ditch. "I don't suppose it matters that Stormcloaks are learning about this entry," he muttered. "After what that dragon has done to Helgen I can't see it being much use as an Imperial stronghold. Not unless it's totally rebuilt."

He led the way across the drawbridge, Rhiannon right behind him, and the Stormcloaks followed. Ralof crossed the bridge and then, as the other three were still on the wooden causeway, a dragon-roar sounded and the roof collapsed.

Blocks of stone crashed down onto the wood, the bridge was shattered, and two of the Stormcloaks fell into the ditch. Rhiannon caught the woman's hand and pulled her to safety. The bowman flattened himself against the side of the ditch, barely avoiding the falling stones, then leapt up and tried to climb out. He couldn't quite reach the top but Ralof, joined a moment later by Hadvar, lay down and extended their hands to him. The Stormcloak managed to catch hold of their reaching hands and was hauled out of the ditch.

The other, the man called Jurgald, didn't appear. Rhiannon looked down into the ditch and saw him sprawled at the bottom, a shattered piece of wood from the drawbridge impaling his abdomen and a four-foot square block of stone crushing his shoulder and chest. It was quite obvious that he was dead.

"The gods have passed judgement upon him for his dishonor," Ralof said, solemnly. "May you find better mercy in Sovngarde than you deserve, Jurgald."

Rhiannon somehow managed to restrain herself from vomiting and, once everyone had dusted themselves down, the group moved on again. After going down a flight of stone steps they emerged into a cavern which seemed entirely natural, with no signs of human modification, probably carved out by the fast-flowing stream which ran through the middle of the space. Daylight filtered down through holes in the roof, not bright, but providing enough light to see by. The cave widened, as they went on, and they entered an area where the walls and floor were covered in cobwebs.

Big cobwebs. And then the spiders responsible descended from the roof and Rhiannon felt a stab of visceral fear.

These spiders were… absolutely fucking massive. There were five of them; the smallest was as big as a German Shepherd dog and the largest was bigger than Rhiannon. They scuttled toward the humans, moving far too swiftly and surely to be any kind of animatronic, but far too big to be real. They were much bigger even than the gigantic spiders of the Carboniferous Age that Rhiannon had seen in the BBC series _Walking With Monsters_. And more realistic than that show's state-of-the-art for 2005 CGI.

The spiders scuttled toward the humans, displaying enormous and vicious-looking fangs, and Rhiannon pretty much lost it. She charged the nearest one, screaming and flailing her swords, panic-driven adrenalin substituting for technique. Eventually she came to her senses and realized that she was hacking at the dismembered remnants of a spider, green blood splattering as her blows landed, and the other spiders were motionless and in pieces.

"You could have left some for us, girl," Ralof said, sounding amused.

Rhiannon shook her head. She knew that she had been, in the words of Egon Spengler, 'terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought' and could hardly believe that she hadn't just run for her life. "I… didn't kill all of them, did I?"

"Three of them," Hadvar said. "You were right, you can use two swords."

"Uh, good?" Rhiannon stared at the yellowish-green liquid on her sword-blades, grimaced, and tried to wipe it off on the intact parts of a spider carcass; she really didn't want to use her cloth and then put it back into her pouch.

"There's some moss over there, that will work better than the dead spider," Hadvar said, and Rhiannon followed his suggestion.

And then the bear attacked.

The beast had been slumbering peacefully, beyond the portion of the cave occupied by the giant spiders, but the noise of the fight had disturbed its rest. Now it approached at speed, roaring in rage, and the humans raised their weapons to defend themselves.

Rhiannon had seen the trailer for _The Revenant_ and, consequently, she found the sight of the charging bear terrifying. Unlike with the spiders, however, she did manage to stay more or less in control of herself. She kept the points of her swords aimed at the bear and stood her ground; not the best course of action, perhaps, but she doubted she could outrun it and she had no idea what else to do.

Luckily, at least for her, she proved not to be the bear's initial target. Instead it went for Ralof and delivered a swipe with a paw that, despite his blocking with his shield, knocked him from his feet and sent him sprawling. The bear followed up but Hadvar and the two other Stormcloaks charged in and began stabbing and hacking at the beast from each side. A moment later Rhiannon managed to spur herself to action and she joined in, thrusting and chopping with her swords, from a position of relative safety behind the bear.

The next minute was a confusion of frantic activity, the bear turning first to one attacker and then another, delivering some damaging blows with its claws but weakening as its fur turned red with its blood under a barrage of sword strokes. Ralof picked himself up and wielded a one-handed axe to good effect. Eventually the bear went down and stayed down.

Rhiannon stood still, panting, and only then realized that a claw-swipe had left two bloody gouges along her upper left arm. As soon as she noticed them the pain hit her. She wasn't the only one injured. Ralof's left arm looked to be broken, the other Stormcloak man had been bitten on the right shoulder and his arm was hanging limp and useless, the Stormcloak woman's gambeson was ripped and bloody, and Hadvar's right ear had been sliced through and part of it was hanging down with blood dripping from it onto the shoulder of his armor.

"It is well that we agreed to a truce," Ralof said, breathing heavily, "for if we had fought each other some of us would have perished and, with fewer than five, the fights with the spiders and the bear might not have gone as well."

"True," agreed Hadvar. "All of us might be dead now. Let us heal ourselves and get out of this place. Hopefully there will be no more beasts between us and the exit. The bear will not have shared its lair with any other creatures."

"Except perhaps another bear," said the Stormcloak woman.

"It would have come to the sound of its mate fighting," said Ralof. "I think we are safe. I have a couple of healing potions."

"As have I, and so does Rhiannon," said Hadvar.

Rhiannon stirred herself into action and went to wipe her swords on the bear's fur. She realized, then, that her right-hand sword was broken. The blade had snapped off, some three or four inches from the hilt, and the rest of it was embedded in the bear's body. Poor-quality iron, presumably; she doubted if she could have broken a steel sword even if she'd set out to do so. She tossed the useless hilt away, cleaned off the remaining sword, and sheathed it.

Potions were shared out and consumed. Hadvar helped Ralof to hold his broken arm into a position where the bones were straight as the Stormcloak woman tipped the contents of two potion bottles into Ralof's mouth. Rhiannon held the partially-severed section of Hadvar's ear in place as he drank a potion. The two pieces stayed together, reunited into a seamless whole, when she took her hands away. It took two potions to turn the gouges in Rhiannon's arm into smooth, unmarked, skin and, similarly, the Stormcloak woman had to drink two to recover from the damage the bear's claws had done to the flesh of her stomach. The Stormcloak man's injuries required three potions to heal and that exhausted their stock.

It all seemed… magical… to Rhiannon. She couldn't see how, outside of D&D, such things could be possible. But everything looked, felt, and smelt horribly real.

And then, at last, they left the cave and emerged into open air and sunlight. Rhiannon blinked in the bright light and looked around. They were in an area of rocky outcrops and scattered pine trees with patches of snow on the higher areas. There was nowhere near Philadelphia that looked like that, as far as she knew, although she had to admit she was no expert on American geography despite having traveled extensively through the country with the WWE. She could see mountains in the distance, not resembling anything she recognized, and there was an unusual absence of vapor trails in the sky.

There was some smoke, behind them, presumably rising from the burnt-out wreckage of Helgen; and there was… a dragon. It was high in the sky, flying off in the direction of a distant hill, where Rhiannon could see a chain of stone arch-like structures marking out a path up the hillside. She'd never seen anything remotely like those structures anywhere in America – or indeed in the UK.

"There it goes," Ralof said. "Let's get out of here before it comes back." He looked at Hadvar. "I have no wish to fight you now, Hadvar. We should keep the truce until we are back with our own people."

"I agree," said Hadvar. "And, besides, Jarl Ulfric may have perished in Helgen, in which case the war would be over."

"The Stormcloak is not easy to kill," said Ralof. "It may be that General Tullius has died."

"Legate Rikke would take over until the Empire sent another general," said Hadvar. "I shall go first to Riverwood and then back to the Legion in Solitude. And you?"

"We shall head for Windhelm," said Ralof. "When you get to Riverwood tell Gerdur that I made it out safely."

"I shall do that," said Hadvar. "What about you, Rhiannon? Are you coming with me? My uncle is the blacksmith in Riverwood. He can at least give you a meal and a bed for the night."

"You should come with us to Windhelm," said Ralof. "The Stormcloaks could use a fighter like you."

"Better that you should join the Legion," said Hadvar.

"I just want to go home," Rhiannon said. "Where can I find a phone?"

"A what?" Hadvar and the Stormcloaks all looked equally puzzled.

"Forget it," said Rhiannon. Either they were genuinely puzzled, and this impossible set-up was real, or else they were so determined not to break kayfabe* that even injuries and deaths couldn't shake their resolve. "Which is closer, Riverwood or… Windhelm?"

"Riverwood is much closer," Hadvar said. "Just over the border in Whiterun Hold. It shouldn't take us much more than two hours, three at most, to get there. To travel to Windhelm would take two days at least."

"Longer for us," said Ralof, "as we will have to travel by way of the Rift."

"I'll go to… Riverwood… with Hadvar, then," said Rhiannon.

The parting was awkward; enemies, briefly united by shared peril, stumbling through farewell rituals intended for friends. Then the Stormcloaks turned away, intending to circle the ruins of Helgen and strike out for Windhelm, and Hadvar led Rhiannon downhill along a rough track.

After a short distance the track led them to a broader path roughly paved with stones. Hadvar pointed across the valley toward the line of arches that Rhiannon had noticed. "See that ruin up there?" he said. "Bleak Falls Barrow. When I was a boy, that place always used to give me nightmares. Draugr creeping down the mountain to climb through my window at night, that kind of thing. I admit, I still don't much like the look of it."

"Draugr?" The word meant nothing to Rhiannon.

"The walking dead," Hadvar explained. "Corpses that won't lie still but stalk the ancient barrows, attacking anyone who trespasses." He shuddered. "Vile necromancy."

Rhiannon held back from telling him that there were no such thing as walking corpses. There were no such things as dragons, or dog-sized spiders, either and she'd seen both of those up close and personal. Instead she tried, again, to work out where she might possibly be. If they were telling the truth about Windhelm being a couple of days' travel away this crazy place must be a considerable size. Where in the United States would there be room for a Dark Ages reconstruction that big? The only region she could think of would be the forests of Washington State or Oregon, maybe, but they must be well over two thousand miles from Philadelphia. How could she have been taken there in the impossibly short time between being in her hotel and waking up in the cart? It had been 11:11 when… she'd made a… wish.

A wish. To be… she searched her memory… somewhere she could be a champion and it would really mean something.

But you couldn't really just make wishes and have them granted. Not outside of fairy tales. And Dungeons & Dragons, of course, but a Wish was a Ninth Level mage spell and her character had been only a fourth-level Ranger, with one level as a Thief, when she stopped playing. And D&D was just make-believe anyway. There was the Make-A-Wish Foundation, but that was just people doing what they could to make sick children's wishes come true. She'd granted three wishes for the Foundation herself, in fact, although that was nothing compared to the more than five hundred John Cena had… granted.

"Granted." That was the last thing she'd heard in the hotel room and it had been in John Cena's voice. But John Cena granted wishes by doing nice things for kids, not by using magic powers, and he hadn't even been in Philadelphia anyway. He'd been away, shooting a TV show, since Hell-In-A-Cell in October. None of this made any sense.

"Rhiannon! Are you all right?" Hadvar's voice broke into her thoughts and she realized she was standing still, in the middle of the path, staring at nothing.

"I was just… thinking," she replied. "Where are we?"

"Just outside of Helgen, on the road to Riverwood," Hadvar replied, a frown on his face.

"No, I mean, where is Helgen? Where is Riverwood? What country is this?"

"Helgen's in Falkreath Hold, Riverwood is in Whiterun Hold, and they're both part of Skyrim," Hadvar answered.

"And where is Skyrim?" Rhiannon pressed.

"It's the northernmost province of the Empire," Hadvar said.

"What Empire? The Roman Empire?"

"Roman? The Second Empire was the Reman Empire, but this is the Third Empire. The Septim Empire, or it was, but the Septim dynasty are all dead and Titus Mede II rules now."

Reman? Was this some alternate history where Remus, instead of Romulus, had founded the empire that had been Roman in Rhiannon's world? Or, at least, was that the script to which some bunch of crazies were sticking even when acting it out got them killed? Rhiannon shook her head. "Forget it," she said. "Let's just get to this Riverwood place." They resumed their journey and Rhiannon shook her head again. "Damn," she muttered to herself. "Why couldn't I have just wished to be invited onto the next series of _Strictly_?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Dovahzul phrases:

* _Joor lost ilir do dovah nau ek zek_. Z _urun_. = The mortal has a picture of a dragon on her back. Odd.

* _Yol Toor Shul_ = Fire Inferno Sun

English meanings of an American word:

* _Kayfabe_ = the scripted storylines, relationships, and feuds of Professional Wrestling.

English meaning of a Welsh word:

* _pen-coc_ = dickhead.


	2. Another Girl, Another Planet

**Two: Another Girl, Another Planet**

Rhiannon and Hadvar walked on and reached a junction where a crude wooden signpost pointed to Helgen, to Riverwood, and to Falkreath. They took the Riverwood path, still going downhill into a river valley, and came upon a bend in the road beyond which stood three man-high, carved, stone pillars. Each had a football-sized hole drilled through it near the top.

"These are the Guardian Stones," Hadvar informed Rhiannon. "Three of the thirteen ancient standing stones that are scattered throughout Skyrim. It is said that, if you are favored by the Divines, touching the appropriate stone will bestow a blessing upon you. The Thief Stone, the Mage Stone, and the Warrior Stone. Go ahead, see for yourself."

All three bore highly-stylized outline pictures of human figures. One was a man wearing a cloak, a mask hiding his face, and holding a dagger; another showed what was obviously a wizard; the third was engraved with a man in a horned helmet, a shield on one arm, a battle-axe in the other hand. Rhiannon put her hand on the warrior figure and, to her amazement, the hole lit up and a beam of bluish light shone from it and seemed to sink into her. She felt a rush of power, briefly, and then the light went out. Something remained, however, and she could still feel a sensation of added poise and confidence.

"Warrior, indeed," Hadvar murmured. "I knew it. And you are favored of the Divines. You… what's that?" He started to turn, his hand reaching for his sword, and an arrow hit him between his right shoulder and his neck. The impact spun him halfway around and he dropped to his knees.

Rhiannon had turned at Hadvar's exclamation and she saw him fall. Beyond him she saw a woman, dark-haired and clad in leather and fur, nocking an arrow to a bow. She leapt aside, as the bow came round to aim at her, and took cover behind the Thief Stone. An arrow whistled by and glanced off the pillar.

"You'll be so much easier to rob when you're dead," the woman said, as she took another arrow from her quiver.

Hadvar was out of action and Rhiannon had no bow with which to fight at a distance. She came out from behind the Stone and charged. The woman drew back her bowstring, arrow aimed straight at Rhiannon, but just as she loosed Rhiannon threw herself into a rolling dive. The arrow passed above her and Rhiannon came to her feet, still keeping all the momentum of her charge, and closed to hand-to-hand range. As the archer cast aside her bow, and grabbed for a dagger, Rhiannon slugged her in the stomach and doubled her up.

Rhiannon seized both her opponent's arms and wrenched them up behind the archer's back in an inverted double chickenwing. She cast a quick glance behind her and saw that Hadvar was supporting himself with his left hand to keep himself from falling on his face. His right arm was red with blood and it was obvious that he was seriously injured and needed help. She had to end the fight quickly and she was in a perfect position to use one of her signature finishing moves from the WWE. She lifted the woman until her legs left the ground, forced her head down, and then, without bracing her opponent's head with her legs as she would have done in the ring, slammed her opponent head-first to the ground in the move she called the Dragon Driver.

The archer's head hit the ground first with the full weight of both women driving it down onto the stone flags. An instant later Rhiannon landed on her knees, hard enough to hurt a little, but for the archer the effect was catastrophic. Rhiannon, by sheer reflex, rolled over to grab a leg and hold her opponent in a pinfall position. She recoiled in horror as she realized that she was doing it to someone who was dead or dying. The archer's skull was caved in and her neck looked as if it was broken. Rhiannon picked herself up, managed to suppress the urge to vomit, and rushed to Hadvar.

The armor made it difficult to be sure about the extent of the injury but it looked to Rhiannon as if the arrow had transfixed his trapezius muscle, from back to front, and the bloody arrowhead was sticking out from what must have been just above the collar-bone. There were a lot of blood vessels in that area, Rhiannon knew, and without medical attention it could be a life-threatening injury. A healing potion might well be enough to patch him up – but they had none left.

"What do I do?" Rhiannon had a little knowledge of first aid but her only ideas about arrow wounds came from movies. "Snap off the head and pull it out?"

"Better leave it," Hadvar advised. His face was pale and he croaked out his words. "It might do more damage coming out. The bandit might have some potions."

"I should have thought of that!" Rhiannon scampered back to the body and, conquering her revulsion at the thought of touching it, searched it for potions. She found three bottles; one the same coral pink color as the healing potions Hadvar had found in Helgen; another that was bright green; and the third was a smaller vial, purple in color, with a glass stopper instead of a cork. For the moment she ignored everything else that she'd found and rushed back to her injured companion.

"I found these," she said. "I think this one's a healing potion but I don't know what the others are."

Hadvar looked at the potion bottles as she held them out. "A healing potion, as you thought, but Minor Healing only," he said. "Not powerful enough to deal with a wound like this. But it may slow the bleeding enough for me to make it to Riverwood. The others… the green one is a Potion of Stamina. It would refresh one of us if we became exhausted. The purple…" he paused, and grimaced, "…is skooma."

"What's that?"

"A vile and addictive drug," Hadvar said, disdain evident in his voice. "No surprise that a bandit should possess it. Pour it out upon the soil so that it can do no harm."

"Would a single dose act as a painkiller?" Rhiannon wondered, remembering the medical uses of cocaine and even heroin.

Hadvar grimaced again. "I would rather endure any amount of pain than consume that filthy stuff," he said. "Even taking it once can bring addiction. And any true Nord would rather die than become a slave to skooma."

So, the equivalent of crack cocaine, then. Rhiannon doubted if it really would turn Hadvar into an addict if he used it to kill the pain of the wound but she'd respect his wishes. She stepped off the path and poured the bottle's contents, which turned out to be a white crystalline powder rather than a liquid, onto the grass and scattered it around to minimize the danger of poisoning some grazing animal. She tossed the empty bottle away and then returned to Hadvar.

"How close are we to Riverwood?" she asked.

"A little more than half-way there, I would estimate," said Hadvar. "If leave the arrow where it is, and take the potion, I think I will be able to make it." He took the potion, drank it, and then Rhiannon helped him to his feet.

"We'd better get moving, then," Rhiannon said.

"First, you should retrieve the bandit's weapons, and take her armor too," Hadvar advised.

"Weapons, yeah, but I've got armor," Rhiannon said. The thought of stripping that dead body – the body that she had killed – revolted her.

"You cannot keep wearing the armor of a Legion auxiliary," Hadvar said. "You will be taken for a deserter, or as a bandit – like her – who has slain a Legionary and taken his armor."

"Good point," Rhiannon conceded. She screwed up her courage and managed to accomplish the grisly task without shaking too badly. The dead bandit wore a leather corselet, a fur cape, and a fur kilt. The outer garments seemed to be reasonably clean; the underwear… wasn't, but luckily the kilt had ended up well clear of the messy side-effects of death and she managed to remove the garment without it coming into contact with any… unpleasantness.

"I don't think it will fit," she told Hadvar. "She… wasn't… as big as me."

"My uncle will alter it to fit," Hadvar said, "or exchange it for something more your size. Stuff it into your pack and we will be off."

Rhiannon obeyed, glad that she wasn't expected to change straight away; this didn't seem to be a terribly safe place and she didn't want to be attacked whilst undressed. And she would have liked to go into the bushes for a pee but she didn't dare take the risk. Better to be uncomfortable than to get an arrow in the… back. She collected the dead woman's weapons; a bow, a quiver containing a dozen or so arrows, and two daggers. And then they were on the way again with Hadvar moving slowly and in obvious pain.

"You called that woman a bandit," Rhiannon said. "She was, what, going to kill us and take our stuff?"

"Exactly," said Hadvar. "There are fewer guards to patrol the roads now, as many of those who might have chosen that profession have joined the Legion or the Stormcloaks instead, and bandits and wild beasts take advantage. Keep your eyes open. I had heard rumors that the Embershard Mine has been taken over by bandits and I would guess the rumors are true. It is not far from here and must be where she came from. There may well be other bandits on the prowl."

Rhiannon shuddered. She wasn't sure how much more of this she could take. She was tired, her feet were starting to hurt from walking in boots without socks, she needed a pee, she was getting hungry, and she really, really, didn't want to have to kill anyone else. But there didn't seem to be anything she could do to change things and so she kept walking and looking around for lurking enemies.

"The Jarl of Falkreath Hold is a lazy swine," Hadvar remarked. "A decent Jarl would do something about bandits taking over a mine, even if he didn't have the men to patrol the roads on a regular basis, but Jarl Siddgeir thinks only of comfort and his own profit. Alas that the Empire should be forced to support such a poor excuse for a Nord."

"I still don't understand what the Empire is, or who the Stormcloaks are, and why they're fighting," Rhiannon said, and Hadvar tried to explain it all to her as they walked. She tried to follow the explanation but it was all too much to take in. A treaty banning the worship of a god called Talos – one of the most evil gods in D&D, if she remembered correctly – at the orders of evil elves, a murdered king, a young and beautiful widowed queen, a rebellion, and a province torn apart by a civil war that could have ended that day had the dragon not interrupted and prevented the execution of Ulfric Stormcloak. And of Rhiannon, of course, but Hadvar didn't dwell on that bit.

By the time Hadvar's tale reached a conclusion the path was running parallel to a river and, on the far bank, she could see deer grazing. And then she heard the sound of howling, coming from her side of the river, and the deer raised their heads and moved away.

"Wolves!" Hadvar exclaimed. "Get ready to fight!"

Three black wolves rushed from out of the woods, howling and slavering, and attacked.

Rhiannon tried to keep herself between the wounded Hadvar and the animals but the wolves split up, circled, and came in from different directions all at once. One leapt at her and she managed, as much by luck as by judgement, to meet it with the point of her sword and impale the beast. Its momentum tore the sword from her hand and she was weaponless as another wolf came in from the side.

She tried to block the attack with her left arm, relying on the leather wrist-guard to protect her while she drew a dagger with her right, but as the jaws closed on her forearm the teeth pierced through the leather and into her flesh. She cried out, as pain flared through her, but managed to get the dagger out and stab at its neck. She stabbed, and stabbed again, until the jaws relaxed and the wolf fell lifeless.

At once she whirled to look for the third wolf. It was attacking Hadvar and he was using his shield to fend it off. With his right arm he was trying, awkwardly, to draw his sword but didn't seem able to get a proper grasp on the weapon. Rhiannon threw herself at the wolf, stabbing at its body but with little immediate effect, until it turned on her and she managed to catch it by the throat. She held its snapping jaws back from her face and stabbed it in the side of the neck. Blood spurted, its attempts to reach her grew weaker, and then it went limp.

"Yet again you have saved me," Hadvar said, his voice hardly more than a whisper, and Rhiannon saw that the arrow wound was bleeding heavily once more and he swayed as he stood. His movements in the fight must have caused the embedded shaft to do more damage.

"Not if we don't get to Riverwood soon," Rhiannon said. She felt like crying. Her own arm was bleeding, the blood oozing out from under the wrist bracer, she was now utterly exhausted, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep going.

"I don't think I can carry on," Hadvar admitted. "Go on without me. My uncle can send help."

"I'm not leaving you," Rhiannon said, recovering her resolve. "Suppose more wolves come? Or bandits?"

"If there had been more wolves in the pack they'd all have attacked," Hadvar said, "and we must be within a couple of miles of Riverwood by now."

"Then we can make it together," Rhiannon said. "I'll help you walk."

"Very well," Hadvar said, "but recover your sword first."

"And clean it," Rhiannon said, wearily. "I know." She retrieved her weapon, wiped it and the dagger, and sheathed them both. Then she took Hadvar's good arm, draped it across her shoulders, and helped him to walk on.

It was the longest two miles of Rhiannon's life. It seemed as if with every step she was taking more and more of Hadvar's weight. She remembered the potion that Hadvar had said dispelled exhaustion but it was tucked away in her pouch, she couldn't reach it without releasing Hadvar, and she feared that if she let go of his arm he'd fall and damage himself still more. There was no other course but to grit her teeth and carry on.

At last she saw buildings ahead. Thatched roofs, a stone wall topped by a walkway roofed over with shingles, an archway piercing through the wall where it crossed the road. By this time Hadvar was barely able to put one foot in front of the other, and she must have been taking more than half of his weight, but she coped. In fact she felt a renewed surge of energy at the sight of the destination and, if she hadn't been worried about exacerbating his injury, she would have swung him up onto her shoulders and carried him.

Through the archway – there was no actual gate, making the wall just a little pointless for the defense of the village – and into the settlement itself. The first building on her left had a sign in the shape of a horseshoe hanging outside and the sound of a hammer on metal was ringing out from a covered, open, verandah on the near side. Smoke was rising from something that Rhiannon identified as a forge. She headed directly for the forge and saw a bearded man hammering away at something on an anvil. He noticed her approach, raised his head, and then hastened in her direction.

"Hadvar!" he exclaimed, as he stepped down onto the street and came toward her. "Shor's bones, what has happened?" A child, a girl of maybe ten or eleven, followed behind him.

"He's badly wounded," Rhiannon said. "An arrow…"

The blacksmith's eyes widened as he saw the arrowhead protruding from the wound. "Dorthe!" he called. "Run to the inn and ask Delphine to come. She's better at treating injuries than anyone else in the village."

"Yes, papa," the girl answered, and she ran off along the street.

"We'd better get him inside," the blacksmith said to Rhiannon. "Can you manage?"

Even as he spoke Hadvar slumped so that the only thing holding him up was the arm over Rhiannon's shoulders. The blacksmith hastened to assist her and, between them, they managed to get him up the steps and into the house without touching his injured shoulder.

"Sigrid!" the blacksmith shouted. "We need some help here."

Rhiannon looked around and, at first, didn't see anyone else. The floor was made of crude wooden beams with furs spread over them, the walls were mainly of wood with one stone section containing a fireplace, and there were two beds in the room plus cupboards, a large wooden table, and wooden dining chairs. One bed was a double, one was a single, and both were simple affairs with wooden frames and bases of wood spread with furs. The blacksmith indicated that Rhiannon should take Hadvar to the single bed and he helped her get him sat down on it. She didn't dare lay him down in case that moved the arrow.

"What is it, Alvor?" a woman's voice asked, and Rhiannon looked around and saw a red-haired woman. She had come up a staircase, which presumably led down to a basement, that Rhiannon hadn't noticed at first. "Who is…" the woman, Sigrid, continued, and then she saw Hadvar. "Your nephew? He's injured!"

"I had noticed," Alvor said, dryly. "I want to get him laid down on the bed but he's bleeding like a stuck pig. I thought you might want to put some covers down first. And get some water boiling."

Sigrid at once scooped up a round iron pot and hung it on a frame over the fire. She went to a cupboard and brought out a smock, with threadbare patches visible and sections cut away at the edges, and sliced through it with a dagger. She came over and spread the opened-out smock over the bed behind Hadvar. "Lay him down on his side," she said. "I'll get some cloths."

"Thank you, wife," Alvor said. "I've sent Dorthe to get Delphine. She knows Restoration magic."

"So does Camilla Valerius," Sigrid said, "and the Riverwood Trader is closer than the inn."

"I doubt Camilla could cope with anything this serious," Alvar said. "Hmm. A barbed head. I'm surprised it pierced his mail unless… yes, it looks as if something had damaged the mail already." He turned his head toward Rhiannon. "What happened, soldier? Was there a battle? Has Helgen fallen to the Stormcloaks?"

"It was a bandit who shot Hadvar," Rhiannon said. She was, at last, able to let go of Hadvar's arm and a matter of some urgency, held back for ages, at once asserted itself. "I… can I use your…" she was about to say 'bathroom' in the American fashion, thought of changing it to the English 'toilet', but then remembered the medieval term and finished "…privy?"

"Of course," said Sigrid. "It's out the back, behind the forge."

It hadn't occurred to Rhiannon that it would be an outside toilet but, once mentioned, it made sense. She went back out of the door and managed to find the outbuilding in question. The facilities in question were primitive in the extreme but did include two containers, one holding pieces of threadbare rags and another of vegetable matter resembling cotton wool, that were presumably for… wiping. Once she had finished she set off to return to the house but was brought up short by something in the sky.

It was starting to grow dark by this time – 9:48, according to her watch, which would have been at least five hours after sunset in Philadelphia – and she deduced that she must have traveled across several time zones. As she was trying to come up an explanation for that, and failing, she saw the moon in the sky ahead of her. Or, rather, two moons.

One was smaller than the moon she knew, perhaps half the apparent size; the other was… immense. At least three times as big as Earth's moon, distinctly red-tinged, and with craters and other physical features that were much more distinct and easily visible than she was used to. And she'd seen the 'super-moon' in September and this was much, much, bigger. An optical illusion caused by atmospheric distortion? Maybe, but what about the other moon? She had a horrible feeling that both of them were real.

"I'm on another planet," she gasped. " _Mae hi wedi cachi arna i_ _!_ "* She shook her head. It just wasn't possible. No matter how convincing it looked it had to be an illusion of some kind.

"I saw a dragon!" an old woman, sitting outside a house on the other side of the road to the blacksmith's, called out to her. "My son doesn't believe me, but I really did see a dragon."

Rhiannon looked around, her eyes widening, trying to work out where the hell she could find shelter from a fire-breathing dragon in a village of wooden buildings with thatched roofs. Then it occurred to her that there was no-one in sight who could be the old woman's son and so, presumably, she hadn't just seen the dragon in the past few seconds. "When was this?"

"In the afternoon," the woman answered. "It flew over, high in the sky, and went towards Bleak Falls Barrow."

Rhiannon relaxed. That must have been when they came out of the caves under Helgen and saw the dragon flying away. "Well, let's hope it doesn't come back, then," she said. Casting another puzzled look at the two moons she moved on and went back into the house.

The little girl was back, by this time, and there was another woman present. A woman, clad in a dress the color of faded denim, with steely blue eyes and short blonde hair with slight traces of grey. She and Alvor were both bending over Hadvar.

"When I give the word, pull," the woman, presumably Delphine, instructed. Alvor nodded. "Now!" Delphine snapped out. Alvor tugged the arrow free and, simultaneously, Delphine's hands flared with a bright yellow light that seemed to penetrate Hadvar's body. There was a spurt of blood from the wound and Alvor pressed a folded cloth to the wound. Hadvar cried out and jerked. After a couple of seconds, however, he seemed to relax and his eyes opened. Delphine continued to shine the light on him – without any visible light source – for a little longer and then the light dimmed and went out.

"That's all I can manage, I'm afraid," she said. "My abilities with Restoration magic barely scrape into Apprentice level. You'll have to finish the job with potions."

Alvor took the cloth away. "The bleeding has stopped, anyway," he said, "and he looks better. Hadvar, can you hear me?"

"Yes, Uncle Alvor," Hadvar answered. "I feel much better." He sat up and looked around.

"Take it easy, my boy," Alvor cautioned him. "You were quite close to death, if I am not mistaken."

"He was," Delphine confirmed, "but he's out of danger now. He'll need to rest for a day or two, though."

"Damn it! I have to get to Solitude as soon as possible," Hadvar said.

"I'd like to wash my hands before I go back to the inn, Sigrid," Delphine said.

Rhiannon seized the opportunity. "I need to wash my hands too," she said. "And if someone could do something about the bite wound that would be much appreciated."

"Bite wound? I thought the blood on you was from Hadvar," Sigrid said, as she filled two bowls with hot water.

"Some of it is," Rhiannon said, "but a wolf bit me on the arm."

"I think I have enough magicka left to do a little more healing, if the wound isn't too bad," Delphine said. "Can I see?"

Rhiannon removed the wrist bracer and showed Delphine the bite. By now it was mostly clotted over but was still oozing blood in a couple of places.

"Yes, I can deal with that," Delphine said, and her hands shone with light again.

Rhiannon felt a tingling sensation in her arm, the pain dwindled away to nothing, and the ooze of blood stopped. "Thank you," she said. "Was that a… Cure Light Wounds spell?"

"Healing Hands," Delphine said. "I haven't heard your name for it before but it's quite apt." She went to where Sigrid had put the bowls and began to wash her hands. Rhiannon followed suit and then wiped clean where the bite had been. Her skin, remarkably, was now unmarked. "It might be a good idea to take a Cure Disease potion, when you get the chance," Delphine advised. "You can pick up some nasty infections from wolf bites."

Rhiannon thought of rabies, and septicemia, and shuddered. "I'll do that," she agreed, wondering what a Cure Disease potion was and where she could get one.

"So, Hadvar, what happened?" Alvor asked. "What were you doing on the road to Riverwood? I thought you weren't due any leave for another month. Did the Stormcloaks attack Helgen?"

"Not the Stormcloaks," Hadvar told him. "It was a dragon."

Delphine had been on her way to the door but when Hadvar said 'dragon' Rhiannon saw her stop dead, freeze, and then swing her head to stare intently at the legionary. "I'd like to hear this," Delphine said. "If you don't mind, Alvor, Sigrid."

"A dragon?" the little girl exclaimed. "Did it have great big teeth?"

"That's crazy talk, Hadvar," Alvor said. "You've been listening to old Hilde. There are no such things as dragons."

"That's what I thought," Hadvar said, "until a great black dragon swooped down and laid waste to the town." He related the events of the dragon attack, and their escape, although he skipped some things and skated over others. "You can ask Rhiannon," he finished. "She'll confirm it all. She saved my life at least three times."

"You saved my life too, Hadvar," Rhiannon said.

"Perhaps," Hadvar said, "but it is certain that I would have been killed if not for you. She is an amazing fighter. She slew the bandit with her bare hands."

Rhiannon shuddered. "Don't remind me," she said.

"The Jarl must hear of this," Alvor declared, "One of you must go to Whiterun and tell Jarl Balgruuf. Riverwood is defenseless and we need him to send whatever soldiers he can."

"I must go to Solitude," said Hadvar, "but I can go by way of Whiterun. Taking a carriage from there would be the fastest, and safest, way to travel."

"You will not be fit to travel tomorrow," Alvor said, "and yet the need is urgent. And it should be one who has seen the dragon with their own eyes who takes the news to the Jarl."

Everyone looked at Rhiannon. She felt just like Frodo at the Council of Elrond. Really there was only one answer she could give.

"I will take it," she said, "though I do not know the way."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

It seemed that socks were unknown in this place. Instead they used footwraps, squares of cloth folded to go around the feet and pad them inside boots, something that Rhiannon had heard mentioned on _Time Team_ but had never seen. Sigrid had to show her how to put them on. And, with them on, her boots would no longer fit. This wasn't a problem, though, for Alvor was able to provide her with a better-fitting pair, of superior quality, in exchange for the ones she had found in the Helgen Keep.

He was just as happy to trade better armor for the Legion auxiliary gear and the armor taken from the deceased bandit; she kept the fur cape. He offered her a steel cuirass but Rhiannon declined, doubting that she'd be able to move freely in it, and so Alvor came up with a lighter alternative.

"I believe this will fit you very well," he said, taking a bodice and skirt from a stand. "The woman who brought it in was very much of your height and build, as I recall. Studded leather is not the toughest of armor, not by some distance, but it will not restrict your movements. Try it. If it does not fit I can alter it, at least partly, for there is no time to tailor it to you as I might wish in other circumstances."

It fit her almost as if made for her. Too well, in a way, for there was no room for the tunic under it and she had to wear it over only her underwear. Even so it was comfortable and, she had to admit, looked good. She would have been happy to wear the leather bodice, and its broad belt embossed with iron studs, as part of casual dress back home. The skirt piece, of leather trimmed with fur and reinforced with more studs, would have looked out of place anywhere except on the set of one of her movies but, in context, was quite pleasing to the eye.

"There's tidy," Rhiannon said, wishing there were full-length mirrors in this primitive place. "Thank you, Alvor."

"You'll need new bracers," Alvor said. The set that had been chewed on by the wolf needed repair but he would take them in trade. "I have a set or two of hide bracers in stock."

"These?" Rhiannon said, picking up a pair that were on display. "They look as if they were made to match the armor."

Alvor pursed his lips and frowned. "That pair bear an enchantment of Minor Smithing, and I had not intended to offer them," he said, but then the frown vanished and he smiled. "But for a lady who saved the life of my nephew, not once but three times, I think I can be generous. Take them, with my thanks, and use the skills housed within them to keep your weapons sharp and your armor strong."

"Skills? They actually teach you blacksmithing, is it?"

"Indeed so," Alvor confirmed, "or hone the skills you possess already."

"Then I can't take them," said Rhiannon. "You'll need them for your work."

Alvor shook his head. "I have another set for myself, with a slightly greater enchantment," he said. "Take them, girl, as a slight repayment of our debt to you."

"Thank you," Rhiannon said again, and she almost hugged the man. The only thing that stopped her was that she'd sensed that Sigrid was hyper-sensitive about other attractive women around her husband; not that Rhiannon was in the least attracted to Alvor, who was a nice guy but too old for her, but there was no sense in annoying her hostess unnecessarily.

"Think nothing of it," said Alvor. "Your bow is a fine weapon, better than the one Hadvar carries, but your sword is a poor piece. And I see you wear an empty scabbard."

"The other sword snapped off in a bear," Rhiannon told him.

"Then I shall find you a pair of steel swords, made by my own hands, and sharpen them to a razor's edge," said Alvor. "The Riverwood Trader should be open by now and Hadvar tells me you have goods to sell there. Do that now, Rhiannon, and I shall have your swords ready by the time you are done."

Rhiannon had reset her watch when she got up, working on the assumption that the mid-point between sunset and sunrise would be midnight, although she wasn't at all confident of the accuracy of her estimate. And that was assuming that this planet had a day-night cycle of twenty-four hours. She had to accept that she was on another planet; a second trip to the privy, after dark, had given her a clear view of the two moons, and a sky devoid of any familiar constellations, proving that the massive size of the larger moon had been no mere optical illusion. By her reckoning, anyway, it was around 8 a.m. local time.

And the shop, indeed, was open. Inside two people, a man and a woman, seemed to be having an argument. They fell silent as Rhiannon entered and the man went to stand behind a counter.

"Sorry about that," he said. He was a thin man of medium height, slightly swarthy in complexion, with a beard trimmed short in a style that reminded Rhiannon of Roman Reigns – although less handsome, with much shorter hair, and far less muscular. "I don't know what you overheard but let me assure you that the Riverwood Trader is open for business and fully stocked. Lucan Valerius, at your service, always ready to help out a prospective customer."

"Uh, good," said Rhiannon. "I have a couple of things I'd like to sell you and some stuff I'd like to buy." She had no idea whatsoever of the purchasing power of the money here and, although she remembered that Hadvar had told her that the robe and the hood were valuable, she had no standards of comparison to go on. "Delphine recommended that I should buy a Cure Disease potion. And some spare healing potions would be good."

Lucan rubbed his hands together. "You're in luck. I just so happen to have both in stock. What do you have to sell me?"

"A… mage robe and a mage hood," Rhiannon said, and laid the items in question out on the counter.

"Hmm," said the shopkeeper, as he examined the clothes. "Only Novice quality, I see. I'll give you a hundred septims for the robe and fifty for the hood."

Rhiannon had no idea whether this was a fair price or not. "Maybe," she said. "Can I take a look around?"

"Of course," he replied. "Take as long as you like."

It didn't take her long to browse the store's rather limited stock. Foodstuffs, herbs, a few weapons, a handful of potion bottles, some drab items of clothing, and a couple of pieces of jewelry. The only thing that really caught her eye was a tiara or circlet, resembling the ones worn by Elrond and Galadriel in _The Lord of the Rings_ and _The Hobbit_ , that sat on the brow of a dummy head on a shelf. It was golden in color, although she guessed it was gilded rather than solid gold, and set with three large green gems. It would, she decided, look amazing and also serve to keep her hair away from her eyes.

"Ooh, there's lush," she murmured, and then turned to the shopkeeper. "How much is it?"

"That's a Circlet of Minor Archery," Lucan informed her. "I couldn't let it go for less than… two thousand eight hundred septims."

Rhiannon gulped. "I can't afford that," she admitted. All she had was the mage robe and hood plus a total of thirty-nine septims she'd picked up during the escape from Helgen. She didn't have the spell-book any longer; she'd attempted to read it over breakfast and, to her amazement, it had self-destructed and turned into a pile of dust. It had left her with a weird conviction that she would be able to fire electric sparks from her hands, which if it actually worked might be useful, but it meant that it was no longer available to be sold.

"Well, I might be able to come down to… two seven-fifty," Lucan conceded.

Rhiannon shook her head. "All I have is a few coins plus what you give me for the robe and hood," she admitted. "I'll just have to do without."

"Lucan, this could be the answer to our problem," the woman put in. "It's obvious she's an Adventurer type. You could offer her the circlet as a reward."

"That's… not a bad idea, Camilla," said the shopkeeper. "I'll tell you what, lady. You do a little service for us and I'll give you the circlet."

"What's the service?" Rhiannon asked. When she'd played D&D the adventure had started off with the party being asked to kill off rats in a cellar, for which they were rewarded exorbitantly, but that had been the DM's way of introducing them to the system and giving them funds to buy their starting equipment. Real life wasn't going to be that easy.

"We were robbed the night before last," Lucan revealed. "The thief took a few items of little worth – a bottle of wine, a sweet roll, and a small purse of coin that I'd left under the counter – and one other thing. An old Nord relic, in the shape of a golden claw, that we kept as a talking point and a good luck token. I wouldn't have said it was worth all that much, in itself, perhaps four or five hundred septims, but it has a lot of sentimental value to us. Get it back and I'll be happy to give you the circlet, for nothing, as your reward."

"How would I find this thief?" Rhiannon asked.

"We're fairly sure that it was a sneaky Dark Elf," Lucan said. "He came in earlier in the day, looked around a bit, and only bought a wheel of cheese. He asked how much I wanted for the claw but didn't press the point when I told him it wasn't for sale. He must have come back during the night and picked the lock on the door."

"Faendal told me he'd seen the Dark Elf later," Camilla took up the story, "up on the mountain, heading for Bleak Falls Barrow. It must be where he's hiding out."

Rhiannon remembered Hadvar mentioning Bleak Falls Barrow and talking of it being haunted by the walking dead. She didn't believe in the walking dead, except as a TV show, but then she didn't believe in dragons either. The thought of poking around in a place like that didn't fill her with enthusiasm. And, anyway, she had other things to do.

"Sorry," she said, "I have to go on an urgent errand to the… Jarl… of Whiterun. Maybe when I get back…"

Lucan frowned. "Oh, very well," he said. "Now, you mentioned potions?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

It was shortly after nine, at least by Rhiannon's watch, when she set off for Whiterun. Twin steel swords rode at her hips, she'd tucked a dagger into a boot, and her bow was slung over her shoulder. The knapsack on her back held the fur cape and a lunch, packed for her by Sigrid, of cold meat, bread, cheese, and a bottle of mead. Two healing potions, all she'd been able to afford with her meagre funds, were in her pouch. She must have looked every inch the fantasy adventurer, she thought, although she still felt extremely disorientated and nervous.

At least the sun was shining, the scenery was quite beautiful, and the road ahead seemed straightforward. She cheered up as she walked through the village, crossed a bridge over the river, and took the path she had been told led to Whiterun.

The road ran more or less parallel to the river, sometimes right alongside the water, at other times turning away so that the water was out of sight. In places the river fell steeply, rushing over a series of cataracts, elsewhere running slow and level. Birds sang and butterflies fluttered from flower to flower. It was, in fact, quite a pleasant walk.

And then Rhiannon turned a corner and saw two wolves in the middle of the road ahead. They were tearing apart the body of some small animal, a rabbit perhaps, but released it and looked up as they sensed Rhiannon's approach. She froze for a second and then drew her right-hand sword. The wolves growled and then, to her surprise, ran off up the slope to the left of the road and out of sight.

Rhiannon released breath she hadn't realized she was holding. For a minute she stood still and then walked on. She skirted the dead rabbit, not wanting the wolves to return to defend their prey, and continued around another corner. Ahead of her she could see what must have been the city of Whiterun; a walled town standing on a rocky hill, rising high above a plain, with the towers of a castle visible beyond the walls. It was still quite some distance away, and the details were indistinct, but it was an impressive sight to match, or even outshine, Harlech Castle. She stopped and stared.

A slight noise from behind her made her turn – in the nick of time. The wolves were racing toward her with their teeth bared. Sheer instinct brought her sword up to meet one as it leapt upon her. The blade pierced its chest and it howled, briefly, and collapsed.

The other wolf struck her from the side and knocked her from her feet. She lost her grip on the sword but performed a smooth shoulder-roll and was back on her feet almost instantly. The wolf snapped at where she had been a second earlier and then came in again. Her left-hand sword came out, almost before she realized she was drawing it, and the wolf's jaws closed on bared steel. She delivered a solid kick to its body, drew the dagger from her boot, and stabbed it in the throat.

When both the wolves lay, unmoving, on the blood-stained flagstones Rhiannon stood, panting, waiting for her heart to stop pounding. Eventually she felt calm enough to begin cleaning her weapons. "Alvor could have warned me," she muttered. "That settles it. On the whole, I'd rather be in Philadelphia."

Once her weapons were clean she resumed her journey. Along the road, descending a steep slope in a zig-zag path, eventually reaching a crossroads marked by a wooden signpost. She took the left-hand path, marked by signs saying 'Solitude' and 'Whiterun', and walked on. A small river ran beside this path, flowing in the opposite direction to the way she was walking, to join the larger river near the point where the signpost stood. Beyond it the city walls towered high above the level of the road. On the side of the road furthest from the city she passed two large buildings, only one floor high but broad, with a sign hanging outside. One side was faded and unreadable but the other side bore a picture of a beehive and the legend 'Honningbrew Meadery'.

Beyond the meadery that side of the road was devoted to farmland. Rhiannon saw rows of cabbages and other crops that she couldn't identify; she wasn't a farm girl and, to her, vegetables came from the supermarket. She could recognize the smell of manure, however, and she wrinkled her nose and accelerated her pace.

And then she came into view of something that stopped her in her tracks. In one of the fields three warriors were fighting against…

…a giant. An actual giant, tall enough to make Big Show look like a hobbit. It towered over the human warriors, at least twice their height, and it was waving a club that must have been eight feet long. As Rhiannon watched she saw one of the humans clipped by a glancing blow from the club and sent flying back at least ten feet. The other warriors kept up their attacks, preventing the giant from following up on its successful strike, but it was apparent that they were having to work hard to avoid meeting the same fate.

Rhiannon gulped and unslung her bow. No-one had mentioned giants to her but that very omission implied that giants were not a normal, peaceful, part of the population of Whiterun. It had to be an invader and the humans were defending the farm. She wasn't going to just stand by and watch them die.

Her hands trembled slightly as she fitted an arrow to the bowstring – nocked an arrow, they called it, she remembered – and pulled it back. She'd only ever used a bow at a target, as she had told Hadvar, but the giant wasn't moving around and it was big enough that she was reasonably confident she'd manage to score a hit. Whether or not the arrow would achieve anything was another matter. She took aim, as best she could, and released.

Before the arrow struck home she had already reached to her quiver, extracted another arrow, and nocked it. Maybe she'd inherited instincts from some Welsh longbowman forefather, she thought, surprised by her own reactions. The first arrow hit; the giant roared and turned to face her. She let the second arrow fly and reached for a third.

The giant began to stride toward her, its long legs eating up the distance, closing at terrifying speed. It seemed to hardly notice when Rhiannon's second arrow hit it in the chest, treating it as no more than a pin-prick, but the third hit lower and seemed to sink in deeper. The giant halted, pulled out the arrow heedless of the barbed tip ripping its flesh, and then advanced again. Rhiannon felt like turning and running for her life but a coldly logical part of her brain told her that flight would be pointless. Instead she nocked a fourth arrow and bent her bow again.

The giant's brief halt had given one of the other combatants a chance to catch up. A sword swung, slashing across the back of the giant's legs, and it staggered and tried to turn again. An arrow struck it in the neck, either a lucky shot or one aimed with more precision than Rhiannon could manage, and the giant reeled. Rhiannon's next arrow hit it in the shoulder region, the figure at the giant's feet – a woman, Rhiannon realized – stabbed up at the giant's groin, and then the warrior who had been felled earlier charged back into the fight wielding an enormous two-handed sword. He took a mighty swing at the giant's legs and one leg buckled. The giant toppled and the two sword-wielders fell on it with blades swinging. Rhiannon didn't dare loose again, for fear of hitting the wrong target, but the other archer had no such worries and put a shaft straight into one of the giant's eyes as it tried to rise.

Rhiannon lowered her bow and, at once, felt herself start to shake. She took a couple of deep breaths, managed to get the shaking under control, and then walked forward.

The other archer came to meet her. Another woman, Rhiannon saw, as she drew near. Tall, although perhaps not quite up to Rhiannon's five feet eleven, and with hair almost as flame-red as that of Becky Lynch. She wore armor that looked odd to Rhiannon's eyes; mainly brown leather but with large steel shoulder-plates and wrist guards, with a few smaller pieces of steel armor attached to the leather here and there, and green cloth sleeves. Her leather skirt ended well above her knees, leaving her legs almost bare, and she had three diagonal stripes of war-paint all the way across her face. The overall effect was to make her quite an intimidating figure.

"You handle yourself well," the woman said, in approving tones. "You could make for a decent Shield-Sister."

"Shield-Sister?" Rhiannon echoed.

"Yes, fighting alongside myself and the other Companions," the woman continued. "You should come to Jorrvaskr with us."

The man with the two-handed sword joined them. He was big, six feet three or thereabouts, and looked quite a lot like Roman Reigns; much more so than the shopkeeper in Riverwood had done. He not only had the close-trimmed beard but also the same long dark hair and a muscular development that equaled that of the wrestler. He lacked the tattoos, at least as far as Rhiannon could tell from the parts of his skin visible between sections of his steel armor, but had war-paint around his eyes that made him look decidedly savage. If the blow with the giant's club had done him any harm he didn't show it.

"You look strong," he addressed Rhiannon. "Aela is right, you should join the Companions."

"Uh, who are the Companions?" Rhiannon asked.

"You don't know about the Companions?" the third member of the group put in. She was younger and shorter than the war-painted archer woman, clad in armor that resembled Rhiannon's own but with a mesh of small, overlapping, steel scales covering the bodice. Her war-paint consisted of blood-red eye-shadow and a stripe of red running down from just under her lower lip to her chin. It made Rhiannon think of vampires.

Her voice, however, was cheerful, friendly, and enthusiastic. "They're only the most famous order of warriors in all of Skyrim," the girl went on. "When we arrive, blood is spilled, and our blades sing to the glory of Ysgramor."

"We are brothers and sisters in honor," the archer – Aela? – added. "We show up to sort out problems… if the coin is good enough. I believe you would fit in well."

"Maybe later," Rhiannon said. Joining an order of warriors might possibly prove to be the only career choice open to her, in this place; she didn't have anything like the knowledge of technology necessary to bring about an Industrial Revolution, not without access to Wikipedia anyway, nor did she know how to weave, or thatch, or carry out any other medieval trades. "I have to deliver a message to the Jarl before I can do anything else."

"When you have done that, come to Jorrvaskr and see Kodlak Whitemane," the big man said, as he wiped the blade of his massive sword with a cloth. "If he thinks you are worthy you will be in. I shall speak for you." He slid the sword into a sheath on his back. "For now, though, I think you deserve a share of the coin for this job."

"You're right, Farkas," said Aela. She put a hand into a pouch, pulled out a leather purse fastened with strings, and tipped some coins into her other hand. Her lips moved as she counted. "Here," she said, offering the money to Rhiannon. "A fourth share of what we are to be paid. Fifty septims."

That more than doubled Rhiannon's remaining funds and she thanked the woman sincerely.

"Speaking of pay," said the girl with the vampire-style war-paint, "we should go and collect what we are owed from Pelagia."

"And I need to get to the Jarl," said Rhiannon.

Aela nodded. "Later, then," she said. "Farewell." The three Companions departed in the direction of a farmhouse and Rhiannon continued on along the road.

She caught a whiff of a smell more unpleasant than the manure and, across the river, saw a stream of filthy brown water running down the hill and joining the river. Sewage, presumably, or the waste from a tannery; she resolved never to drink water from anywhere downstream without boiling the water first. A little further on the road forked, one path leading on into the distance and the other heading for the city. Taking the path toward the city led her past a collection of stables, and a stationary cart that looked just like the one in which she had ridden to her execution, and beyond that, on the other side of the path, was a little encampment of dome-shaped skin tents; yurts, perhaps.

She looked over at the tents, as she passed, and saw the inhabitants of the tents building a camp-fire. Nothing unusual about that… but the figures carrying out the work looked odd, somehow, and she diverged from the direct route to take a closer look.

They were cats.

Bipedal, human-sized, cats. Long tails waved behind them and their faces were unmistakably those of felines. They wore clothes but every part not concealed by clothing was covered in fur. She stopped and stared.

One of them noticed her and took a few steps in her direction. It bowed to her, putting a hand – clawed, but otherwise a furry version of a human hand – over its heart in a gesture like Jack Swagger doing his 'We, the people' catchphrase. "Khajiit has wares, if you have coin," it said, in a voice that was very human but seemed to carry a slight undertone of a purr.

Rhiannon realized that she was staring in a way that might well be considered rude. The cat-people weren't attracting attention from the people over by the stables and so must be normal denizens of this environment. Continuing to stare might be considered rude – or even racist.

"Sorry, I don't really have any coin," she managed to say, keeping her voice as level as she could. "Uh, maybe another time." She put her hand to her breast and returned its bow.

The cat-person, who looked like a grey version of a lynx, seemed to smile. "May your road lead you to warm sands," it said.

"And yours," Rhiannon said in return, and turned away. Only in her mind did she add 'and to a cardboard box.'

The outer wall of the city lay just past that little encampment. Banners depicting a highly stylized horse's head hung from the wall and guards patrolled the ramparts. There was no gate as such, however, merely an archway across the path and, beyond it, a large open area with a stream flowing across it crossed by a low wooden bridge. For a moment Rhiannon was puzzled, not seeing the point of walls without a gate, and then she realized that the main wall lay further on and this was just an outwork. The real defenses began with a drawbridge over a deep trench with water at the bottom and, beyond that, another high wall and a set of massive wooden doors that were firmly closed.

Two guards stood in front of the gates. As Rhiannon approached one of them stepped forward to confront her.

"Halt!" he ordered. He wore armor in the same style as that of the Stormcloaks but covered by a light brown tabard instead of a blue gambeson. His face was entirely hidden by a helmet that reminded Rhiannon of those of the Rohirrim in _The Lord of the Rings_. "The city is closed to strangers while there are dragons about."

"You know about the dragons?" Rhiannon sighed. "I came to tell the Jarl about the dragon attack on Helgen but, if he already knows, I've made this journey for nothing."

"A dragon attacked Helgen?" the guard exclaimed. "How do you know?"

That was a set-up line no-one Welsh would have been able to resist. "I know, 'cos I was there."

The guard looked back over his shoulder, as if seeking his colleague's opinion, and then turned back to Rhiannon. "You're right, the Jarl will want to know about this," he said. Rhiannon guessed that, in fact, the dragon had been seen in flight and the events of Helgen were still unknown in Whiterun. "You'd better go in," the guard continued. "Make your way up to Dragonsreach, at the highest level of the city, and ask for an audience with the Jarl."

Once inside the gates Rhiannon glanced at her watch. 11:45, so the journey had taken her about two and three-quarter hours, and that was including delays fighting wolves and giants. Oh my. That thought triggered a sudden idea. She clicked her heels together three times and muttered "There's no place like home." There was, of course, no result except to cause another pair of guards to look at her curiously.

She moved on, hastily, and the first building she saw was a blacksmith's shop. In Riverwood Alvar's shop had been the first building she'd seen and she wondered if it was the custom here to site smithies at the gates of settlements. Two examples were insufficient to draw conclusions, of course, but it was a thought.

This blacksmith was a woman; good-looking, although in the way that would get her described as 'handsome' or 'striking' rather than 'beautiful', tanned by the sun and lithe of movement. As Rhiannon paused, looking at the smithy, the blacksmith laid down the metal cuirass she was working on and spoke.

"If you're looking to buy, warrior, we have some good pieces for sale. More inside. Or I repair armor and sharpen weapons at very reasonable rates."

"I don't need anything like that at the moment," Rhiannon said, "but if you could point me in the direction of Dragonsreach I'd be grateful."

The blacksmith smiled. "I'd be happy to direct you and I'd like to ask a favor in return. I have made a sword as a gift for Jarl Balgruuf the Greater. It's a surprise, and I don't know if he'll even accept it, but could you take the sword to my father, Proventus Avenicci? He's the Jarl's steward up at Dragonsreach. He'll know the right time to present it to the Jarl. As you are going up there anyway…"

"Of course," Rhiannon agreed.

"Thank you," the blacksmith said, flashing a warm smile. "Next time you need a sword sharpening I'll do it for free. Now, to get to Dragonsreach…"

A minute later Rhiannon was on her way again. She made her way through the streets of what would, in medieval terms, qualify as an industrial district and came to a market square bordered by shops and an inn. Beyond that she ascended a flight of steps, through another internal city wall, and emerged into a circular paved area. A dead tree, surrounded by seating resembling park benches, stood in the center. It would seem to be a perfect place to eat her packed lunch and, indeed, a woman in robes and a hood was sitting there doing exactly that. To one side of the park was an extensive residential district and to the other side was a much more unusual feature. A large building stood atop a rise and it appeared to have a roof constructed out of an inverted Viking ship. It even had the rows of round shields on the sides.

In the same direction, but closer to the park, stood a mighty statue. It represented a warrior in a winged helmet stabbing down with a sword at a coiled, serpentine, dragon. It stood on a plinth about four feet high and rose high above that. Rhiannon estimated that, had she stood beside the statue, she would only have come up to its knees. In front of the statue a man in robes stood, waving his arms, and ranting in the manner of a street preacher. No-one paid him the slightest attention.

And straight ahead the path led to more steps, several flights of them, with water cascading down in a series of mini-waterfalls to each side of the steps and emptying into two large ornamental pools. The overall effect was quite beautiful. The city as a whole reminded Rhiannon of Minas Tirith, but with fewer levels and more spread out, and of course an actual city rather than just a model plus CGI. Although calling it a 'city' was perhaps an exaggeration; based on the number of buildings she could see, from the vantage point of the top of the steps, Rhiannon estimated that the total population was unlikely to be much more than a couple of thousand. Bangor had a population of eighteen thousand and it was one of the smallest cities in Britain.

The castle of Dragonsreach was certainly imposing. It was constructed partly of stone and partly of wood, and might have been vulnerable to siege catapults, but it was up so high Rhiannon doubted this place's armies would possess any capable of reaching it. But a fire-breathing dragon might be another matter.

Once through the castle doors, and into the main hall, Rhiannon was impressed. The interior was like that of a cathedral, with a high vaulted ceiling, brightly lit both by numerous candles and by daylight shining through an opening in the roof. Instead of a cathedral's pews there was a fire-pit in the center of the room and, to each side, long banqueting tables each with a dozen seats. Other rooms could be seen, opening off to the side, but Rhiannon concentrated on the area beyond the fire where several broad wooden steps led up to a throne. The man who sat on the throne was flanked by several attendants and guards. And, above the throne, a dragon's head was set into the wall.

As Rhiannon drew nearer, staring at the dragon's head with some amazement, a woman detached herself from the attendants and came to confront her. When Rhiannon took a proper look at the woman she was so surprised that she nearly dropped the presentation sword that she was carrying, wrapped in cloth, under her arm.

The woman was a Drow.

Not quite as described in Dungeons & Dragons; her skin was a medium shade of grey, rather than jet black, and her hair was ginger instead of white, but still unmistakably a Drow. She drew a sword as she approached.

"What is the meaning of this interruption?" the Drow asked, her voice cold. "The Jarl is in council and not receiving visitors."

Rhiannon managed to stop herself from staring too blatantly and spoke. "I have news from Helgen, about the dragon attack," she said. She would have said more but the Drow immediately sheathed her sword.

"Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said. "You'd better come forward, then. The Jarl will want to speak to you personally." She led Rhiannon toward the throne.

The Jarl was a man of middle age but lean and looking fit and tough. He lounged on the throne, which was made of carved wood, in a way that made it difficult to estimate his height but Rhiannon judged him to be tall. His clothes were trimmed with gold cloth, a fur cape was spread over his shoulders, and a circlet of gold set with jewels sat on his brow.

"Were you at Helgen yourself?" the Jarl asked. "Did you see this dragon with your own eyes?"

"I was, and I did," Rhiannon confirmed. "Uh, I'm not from these parts and I don't really know how to address a Jarl. Please forgive me if I get the protocol wrong."

"Don't worry about that, girl," said the Jarl. "Just tell me what happened."

"The Imperials were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak," Rhiannon said, deciding not to mention that in fact it had been her who had been on the verge of execution, "and then the dragon attacked. It killed a lot of people and set fire to most of the buildings. I escaped with a soldier called Hadvar. He took me to Riverwood and his uncle Alvor asked me to come here and tell you about the dragon. He's worried Riverwood might be next and he'd like you to send some guards there."

"Alvor the smith? A good man, solid and reliable, if I recall correctly," said Jarl Balgruuf. He turned to a shorter man, nearly bald and much slighter of build than most of the people Rhiannon had seen, who stood at his side. "Hear that, Proventus? What do you say now? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls against a dragon?"

The Drow spoke before Proventus could reply. "My lord," she said, thereby giving Rhiannon a clue as to the correct mode of address, "we should send troops at once. Riverwood is in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains…"

Proventus tried to oppose that idea, giving some political reason that Rhiannon didn't follow, but the Jarl overruled him.

"Enough!" the Jarl snapped. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"Yes, my Jarl," the Drow said, causing Rhiannon to revise her thoughts about how to address the Jarl.

"In that case, if you'll excuse me, I'll return to my duties," said Proventus, somewhat stiffly, and the Jarl assented.

"Uh, excuse me, sir," Rhiannon said, as Proventus was turning to leave. "I have to deliver something to you from your daughter." A daughter who, on the basis of this slight acquaintance, Rhiannon would say was twice the man her father was.

"From Adrianne? Ah, yes, I know what it must be," Proventus said. "Come this way." He stopped a little distance from the throne platform and accepted the sword from Rhiannon. "I'll present it to the Jarl at another time, when he's feeling more agreeable," he said in a low voice and then, in a more normal voice, "Thank you. Here, take these few coins, for services rendered." He handed Rhiannon a small purse of coin.

"I have more to say to you, girl," the Jarl called. "Come back over here." When Rhiannon returned he presented her with another, larger, purse. "Well done," he said. "Bringing this news, so soon after what must have been a terrible experience, was a great service to Whiterun. Take this as a token of my esteem. What's your name, girl?"

Briefly she considered reverting to her real name, Cerys Morgan, now that she was away from the WWE but she'd introduced herself by her ring name to enough people that to change now would only cause confusion. "Rhiannon, my Jarl," she said.

"Rhiannon? A Breton name, I would say," the Jarl said. "You're very tall for a Breton girl. Still, no matter. There is another thing you could do for me. Suitable, perhaps, for one of your obvious talents. Come with me to see Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter concerning these rumors of dragons… rumors that are now confirmed as fact."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon's mental picture of a wizard, like that of almost everyone else who had seen _The Lord of the Rings_ and _The Hobbit_ , was firmly based on Gandalf. Farengar was something of a disappointment. He was clean-shaven, except for bushy sideburns that made those of Bradley Wiggins look restrained, and looked to be relatively young. And he spoke with a slight lisp.

"Farengar," said the Jarl, "I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project. Go ahead and give her the details." He turned and went back to the main hall.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the wizard said. "Oh, yes, he must be referring to my research into the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into an old Nordic ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

That didn't sound good. "I'll need to know more before I agree," Rhiannon said.

"When we received reports that a dragon had been sighted, and rumors reached us that Helgen had been attacked, I consulted my sources," the wizard said. "I learned of a certain stone tablet, said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow; a 'Dragonstone' that holds a map of dragon burial sites. Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find the tablet – no doubt in the main chamber – and bring it to me. Simplicity itself."

"Simples!" Rhiannon said, under her breath. She had a nasty feeling that it wouldn't be simple but… Bleak Falls Barrow. That was where Lucan the Riverwood shopkeeper had asked her to go, on the trail of a Dark Elf – Drow, presumably, she realized now – thief, and he had promised her that lush archer's circlet if she recovered his Golden Claw. "I'll do it," she agreed. "What can you tell me about Bleak Falls Barrow?"

"An old tomb, built by the ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon Era itself," Farengar answered. "Or do you just want to know where it is? It's near Riverwood, a miserable little village a few miles south of here. I'm sure some of the locals can point you in the right direction once you get there."

"I know Riverwood," Rhiannon said. If she had the geography right she could get to the barrow without having to go to Riverwood first. Then she could find the Drow, persuade him to hand over the Golden Claw – an arm bar should do it, or one of a dozen other submission holds – then find the Dragonstone, take the Claw to Lucan in Riverwood, stay there overnight, and then come back to Whiterun with the stone tablet. Simples. Or not, most likely, but she was sure the Jarl would reward her too and it looked like her best chance to earn enough to support herself for a while. "I'll be on my way."

"Girl… Rhiannon," the Jarl called, as she left the wizard's workshop and re-entered the main hall. "We are about to dine. You may stay and dine with us before you set off, if you wish."

"It would be an honor, my Jarl," Rhiannon said, basing her phrasing on what she'd heard in movies. It would mean she wouldn't even have to eat her packed lunch, and could save that for later, and the castle might even have a decent privy.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

It was when she saw the blood on the snow that Rhiannon realized that she might have made a terrible mistake.

Her guess that there would be a direct route from Windhelm to Bleak Falls Barrow, straighter and quicker than going by way of Riverwood, had proved to be correct. It had required some scrambling up steep slopes, in places, but she'd tackled steeper slopes before, in Snowdonia, and she had coped without too much difficulty. As she neared the barrow it had turned cold, with a thin layer of snow underfoot, but she had donned the fur cape over her armor and pressed on.

And then she saw the blood, staining the snow red, in a wide circle around an indistinct darker lump. She moved forward, cautiously, and saw that the source of the bloodstains was a human body. It had been sliced almost in half.

Almost she turned around and headed back the way she had come. Only the sound of a wolf howling, somewhere in the distance, deterred her. Instead she gathered her nerve and took a closer look at the body.

The dead man was clad in mismatching pieces of armor. A Stormcloak mail-shirt and gambeson, Imperial boots and wrist bracers like the ones she had donned during her escape from Helgen, and a horned iron helmet. Surely none of the soldiers of either army would dress that way, unless in the direst need, and Rhiannon remembered Hadvar warning her not to wear the military gear, once there was an alternative, lest she be taken for a deserter or a bandit. Honest citizens would know that as well as did Hadvar and that implied that the dead man really was a bandit.

Rhiannon took a deep breath. A bandit might have been killed by an internal quarrel within a gang but then surely his killer would have stripped his body. Alternatively, he might have been slain by guards sent by Jarl Balgruuf to hunt down bandits – or by the Companions Rhiannon had met in the farmlands, on a similar mission. That, she decided, was the likeliest possibility. It should be safe to continue on.

A broad flight of stone steps led up from the trail to the building that must be the barrow. At the bottom of the steps she gasped in horror as she almost tripped over a severed head. The body to which the head had belonged lay half-way up the steps. With her heart in her mouth she ascended the stairs and took a closer look at the corpse.

His armor was heavier, an iron cuirass, iron helmet, and iron-reinforced boots, and looked to belong together, but it was rusty and dented in a way she couldn't imagine would be tolerated in any army or city guard unit. Another bandit, in all probability, she decided. A battle-axe lay a few feet down from the body with a severed hand beside it. Whoever killed this man had disarmed him – literally – and then finished him off with a decapitation stroke. She really, really, didn't want to fight the person responsible. But if it had been Aela, or the big man Farkas, or the other girl whose name hadn't been mentioned, then she wouldn't have to fight. And if it had been Whiterun guards then explaining that Jarl Balgruuf had sent her should be enough to defuse any confrontation. She hoped so, anyway.

There was one more body between the top of the stairs and the entrance of the barrow. This one was a woman, in studded leather armor like Rhiannon's own, but her wrist-guards were of Imperial pattern. Or at least one was; the woman's other arm was missing and Rhiannon couldn't see it anywhere nearby. There was a bow beside the corpse, and a quiver on its back; Rhiannon overcame her repugnance at the thought of touching the body sufficiently to take the arrows from the quiver to top up her own supply. She noticed, as she did so, that the blood was still oozing out of this dead bandit's wounds and the puddle around her was gradually spreading.

And then on to the barrow itself. It was much bigger than Rhiannon had expected, a massive domed structure of stone, with a large iron door set into the closest face. She had purchased a tinderbox in Whiterun, and a torch of wood and oily rags, but she didn't expect to need it; the roof of the barrow had collapsed in several places and she guessed that the gaping holes would let in enough light to be able to see. She opened the door, drew her swords, and slipped inside.

Inside there was, as Rhiannon had expected, enough daylight to see perfectly well. The interior was spacious and, apart from some jumbles of fallen rock from the roof, clear of obstacles. And there was a dead body a few paces in from the door. Rhiannon heard a scream from further in and hurried forward. She saw a smallish figure, wielding what was unmistakably a katana, in the act of striking the head from a big man in iron armor. A woman in leather and furs was backing away from the fight, nocking an arrow to a bowstring, and taking aim.

"Look out!" Rhiannon shouted. It wasn't hard to deduce that the katana-wielding warrior was the one who had slain the bandits outside and thus a prospective ally; Rhiannon certainly didn't want him, or her, to be an enemy.

The small figure whirled around, went into a rolling dive that successfully dodged a hastily-loosed arrow, and came up again with the katana swinging. The archer dropped her bow, clutched at her throat, and toppled to the ground with blood spurting from between her fingers. The katana-wielder flicked blood from the blade and faced Rhiannon with the sword in a ready position.

Rhiannon could tell, now, that the person with the katana was a woman. She wore armor of dull brown leather and a hood over her head that kept her face in shadow. The mystery woman was several inches shorter than Rhiannon but that hardly mattered. She was as deadly with that katana as The Bride had been in _Kill Bill_.

"I'm not a bandit," Rhiannon said, and she sheathed her swords to emphasize the point. "Jarl Balgruuf sent me."

The katana went back into its scabbard. "You're that woman who saved Hadvar's life," the swordswoman said. "Rhiadda, was it?"

"It's Rhiannon," she corrected. She'd heard that voice before, and it had to be someone from Riverwood. Then the swordswoman swept the hood back from her face and Rhiannon's eyes widened with surprise. "Delphine?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

* _Mae hi wedi cachi arna i_ _!_ = I'm fucked!


	3. Beg, Steal, or Barrow

**Three: Beg, Steal, or Barrow**

"By day… a mild-mannered innkeeper. By night… she fights crime."

Delphine frowned at Rhiannon. "What?"

"Nothing," Rhiannon said. "It's just… a surprise seeing you here and you being such a… deadly fighter."

"I'd rather that didn't become common knowledge," Delphine said. "I have… enemies."

"Don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut," Rhiannon said. "I wouldn't want to get on your bad side. So, what are you doing here? Did whatshisname, Lucan, ask you to get his Golden Claw back?"

"Is that why you're here? No, I'm after something called the Dragonstone." She bent down and began to rummage through the possessions of one of the dead bandits.

"The Jarl's wizard asked me to find that," Rhiannon said, "but, as far as I'm concerned, if you want it you can have it."

"I was going to give it to Farengar Secret-Fire myself," Delphine revealed. "We're… pooling our research. If you take it to him that will save me a journey." She pointed to a wooden chest that stood beside the bandit's camp-fire. "There should be some loot in there, maybe even the Dragonstone, and neither of these bandits seem to have the key. See if you can get it open."

Rhiannon looked at the chest. It was fastened with a crudely-made padlock. She considered simply smashing it open with the mace that lay beside the fallen male bandit. That would take a lot of effort, though, and she thought she might as well try subtlety first. In D&D she would have had a set of Thieves Picks & Tools; here she had nothing like that, but she did have her manicure kit, and from what she knew about medieval locks they were very simple and nothing like as hard to crack as modern locks. She set about probing the innards of the lock with her cuticle pusher and her nail file and it only took a few seconds before the lock clicked open.

"Nice work," said Delphine. "Let's see what we have there." The chest proved to be almost empty. A few coins, a silver necklace, and a few thin metal probes that were, presumably, part of a Thieves Picks & Tools set. "Disappointing," she said. "I was hoping for some potions. You can never have too many healing potions." She took everything anyway but handed them all to Rhiannon. "I gather you lost most of your possessions at Helgen so you probably need these more than me. Let's move on."

Beyond the bandits' little camp was an opening that led to rough-hewn steps going down. The two women descended into a winding tunnel. It was surprisingly well lit; burning braziers and lit candles provided adequate illumination and there was no need to light a torch.

"The bandits must have explored deep into the barrow," Delphine remarked. "I doubt if they will have taken the Dragonstone, they would have been after more obviously valuable loot such as gold and gems, but it is a possibility."

"You didn't see a Drow among those bandits, did you?" Rhiannon asked. "That's who Lucan said had stolen his Golden Claw."

"A what?" Delphine stopped and stared at Rhiannon.

"A… Dark Elf," Rhiannon said, realizing that the name 'Drow' mustn't be used in this world.

"Oh, a Dunmer," said Delphine. "No, all the bandits I slew were human. Either the Dunmer has gone elsewhere or else is deeper within the tombs."

They reached a large chamber with the exit barred by a lowered portcullis. A lever, presumably the opening mechanism for the portcullis, stood in front of it. A dead bandit was sprawled beside the lever.

"Poison darts," Delphine explained, after a cursory examination of the body. "The lever is trapped. It is not safe to open until the puzzle lock has been deactivated." She showed Rhiannon where three small pillars, each bearing symbols depicting various animals, stood at the side of the chamber. "These need to be rotated into the correct combination. Those stones up there, and down there," she pointed, "show which symbols are the right ones."

"Why have the answer to the puzzle in plain sight?" Rhiannon asked. "It seems a little pointless."

"It killed this idiot," Delphine said. "Perhaps the idea was to kill off the hasty and the foolish. Perhaps the purpose is to bar the way to mindless creatures, like the draugr, rather than to keep out reasoning beings. I do not know, and the ancient Nords are long dead and not available to answer the question. We must just take things as they are." She rotated the pillars, so that the symbols of two snakes and a whale faced the little arrows carved into the bases of their supports, and then operated the lever. The portcullis slid upward and the way onward was clear.

"You're a bit of a puzzle yourself," Delphine remarked, as they went through the doorway and into the room beyond. There was a lever on the wall, presumably to operate the portcullis from that side, and an alcove in which was another chest. "Hadvar said you were an amazing fighter," Delphine continued, as she opened the unlocked chest and found a potion bottle within, "and you came here alone, which implies you're confident of your abilities. Yet you'd never seen a Nordic puzzle lock and you're looking around at everything with your eyes as wide as those of a startled deer. How much adventuring have you done?"

"None," Rhiannon admitted, "and I'm not an amazing fighter." She was feeling a little inadequate after seeing Delphine's virtuoso performance. "Not with weapons, anyway. I'm a professional wrestler, and an actress, and I'd only used swords in m… in plays, on stage, before yesterday. And I wouldn't have come up here if I'd known there were lots of bandits. I only knew about the… Dark Elf, and I thought I could cope with one."

Delphine's eyebrows climbed. "And yet you impressed Hadvar, and he knows his business," she said.

"I got lucky a couple of times," Rhiannon said. "I'm good with my bare hands but that won't count for much against a sword."

"You'd better let me take the lead, then," Delphine advised. "Are you any good with that bow?"

"Only against targets," Rhiannon confessed. She didn't count the giant because it had been so large that she could hardly have missed.

"Well… just do your best, and try not to hit me," said Delphine. She led the way down a wooden spiral staircase. Halfway down the stairs they were attacked by three creatures resembling rats the size of Labrador retrievers.

Delphine killed the first but the other two leapt across the central gap, bypassing Delphine, and one went for Rhiannon while the other turned to attack Delphine from behind. Rhiannon gave her attacker her left-hand blade to bite on, stabbed the other creature in the hindquarters with her right, and then finished off her attacker as it recoiled from its unpleasantly hard and sharp meal. Delphine turned and delivered a finishing thrust to the beast that Rhiannon had badly wounded.

"One dead and one crippled in the time it took me to kill one," Delphine said. "You're better than you led me to believe."

"One of them pretty much ran straight into my sword, and the other turned its back on me to go for you," Rhiannon said. "What are those things? Giant rats?"

"Skeevers," said Delphine. "Related to rats, I believe, but worse. Not much of a threat if you're armed but their bites carry disease. Their tails can be used in some valuable potions but in the raw state they're not worth much. I'm not going to bother taking them but you can if you want."

"No thanks," said Rhiannon, shuddering at the thought.

At the bottom of the stairs they emerged into a chamber with, beyond it, another corridor descending further into the barrow. Delphine stopped to examine something that lay on a stone table in the center of the chamber.

"A scroll of Fireball," she remarked. "I'm surprised this has just been left here. I would have expected that Dunmer to take it. Perhaps the bandits didn't get this far." She paused in the act of stashing the scroll away in a pouch. "Although someone did. I can hear a voice from up ahead."

Rhiannon listened and heard, faint and far off, a male voice that seemed to be calling for help. Delphine didn't rush to the rescue but moved on slowly and cautiously. Rhiannon took her cue from the more experienced woman and followed suit.

"Is that you Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?" called the voice. "I know I ran ahead with the claw and I'm sorry. I need help!"

A veil of cobwebs obscured the corridor ahead. It was easy to brush aside but further on the entrance to another room was blocked by a dense mass of web. It reminded Rhiannon of the webs she had encountered on the way out from Helgen, where five giant spiders had lain in wait, and she said as much to Delphine.

"You're right," Delphine agreed. "Be ready for a fight." She sliced through the webs and stepped through the gap.

They found themselves in a large chamber that was shrouded in webs from floor to… ceiling. Rhiannon almost shrieked in horror as she looked up and saw a spider the size of a Smart car lowering itself down on a strand of webbing.

"Stay here and use your bow," Delphine ordered. "And try not to hit me." She drew her katana and charged.

Rhiannon managed to control her shaking hands and string her bow. Delphine was already in combat, slashing at the horrible creature, and managing to keep it from plunging home its huge fangs. Rhiannon nocked an arrow, took aim at the spider's abdomen, and loosed. And again, and again, each shot seeming to come easier and more naturally than the one before, and the arrows struck home well clear of where Delphine was dodging and slashing.

And then the spider scuttled around, on legs that must have spanned at least ten feet, and positioned itself on the far side of Delphine. The swordswoman maneuvered to try to give Rhiannon a clear field of fire but the spider moved further around and Rhiannon had no clear shot. She dropped the bow, drew her swords, and ran to assist Delphine.

It wasn't necessary. Delphine's blade cut through one of the spider's limbs and then, as the spider lurched and staggered, drove her sword between the fangs and deep into the arachnid's head. It uttered a high-pitched hissing shriek, its legs gave way, and it flopped to the ground and lay still.

Delphine pulled free her katana, wiped it, and slid it back into its sheath. "And again your performance exceeds what you led me to expect," she said to Rhiannon. "Your arrows injured it severely and made it vulnerable to my strike. You are overly modest, girl."

Rhiannon sheathed her swords. "I'm trying to be realistic," she said. "It surprised me too. Maybe it's something to do with that… Warrior Stone thing that I touched. Hadvar said it would help."

"Ah," Delphine said. "Yes, that would explain it. Not everyone can benefit from the Guardian Stones, though. T… the Divines must approve of you."

Rhiannon retrieved her bow and returned to the large chamber. She wondered what Delphine had been going to say instead of 'the Divines' but decided not to ask. The voice that had called for help was shouting again, yelling "Cut me down!" and she looked for the source.

A man was trapped in the webs on the far wall, entirely wrapped in spider silk, unable to move. A closer look revealed him to be one of the same race as the Jarl's bodyguard Irileth, grey-skinned and sharp of feature, but with a thin black moustache rather than bright ginger hair.

"You did it! You killed it!" the Dunmer exclaimed. "Now, cut me down before anything else shows up."

Rhiannon moved to obey. Delphine was less willing. "Not so fast," she said. "First hand over that claw you stole from Lucan Valerius – and explain why you stole it."

"Do I look as if I can reach my pouch?" the Dunmer pointed out. "Cut me down first."

Delphine's katana came out and slashed away the webs. The Dunmer dropped to the ground, revealing that behind him had been a passageway, and immediately whirled and ran for it.

Rhiannon went after him and caught up within a few strides. She grabbed him by the collar of his armor and jerked him backward. He tried to resist but couldn't pull free. As she dragged him back into the chamber he abandoned his attempt to pull away and instead grabbed for a dagger at his belt. Rhiannon seized his arm, wrenched it around until he dropped the dagger, and then slammed him to the ground face-first. She dropped onto his back, hooked his arm with her left arm whilst maintaining her grip with her right hand, and applied a Fujiwara armbar until he cried for mercy. She eased off on the armbar but kept him pinned.

Delphine touched the point of her katana to the Dunmer's nose. "Ungrateful wretch," she said. "Now, why did you steal the claw? Lucan tells me almost nothing else was stolen. What's special about his good luck token?"

"It's the key to a fortune," the Dunmer explained. "The treasure of the ancient Nords lies within, in the Hall of Stories, with a puzzle to keep out the unworthy. But the legend says that if you have the Golden Claw the solution is in the palm of your hands."

"Hand it over," Delphine commanded.

Rhiannon released the arm-hook, although she kept hold of his wrist, rose to her feet and pulled him up after her. The Dunmer, grimacing, dipped into his pouch and extracted a gilded object the size of a human hand but with three long claws, resembling those on the front paw of a velociraptor, and a rod at the back presumably to act as a handle. Rhiannon thought that it looked like a back-scratcher for Jurassic Park fans with a masochistic streak.

"Hmm," said Delphine, taking the claw and examining it. "Three Nordic symbols. Bear, moth, owl. They must be the answer to a puzzle lock that doesn't have the clues in plain sight. That answers your previous question, Rhiannon." She turned a stern gaze on the thief. "Your friends are all dead. Get out of here and thank the Divines that we're not killing you too."

Rhiannon released her hold and the Dunmer ran off in the direction of the staircase. The two woman set off the other way, following the route by which the Dunmer had tried to evade them, and came to yet another chamber. This one had a number of large ceramic urns standing against the walls and, on a raised plinth, smaller urns that reminded Rhiannon of the canopic jars in _Stargate: SG-1_. Hopefully these wouldn't contain any Goa'uld in stasis. There was also a large gem, as big as a Cadbury's Creme Egg, on a stand like a candlestick.

Delphine examined the gem. "A Common Soul gem," she said. "Empty, unfortunately, but still worth something. You might as well have it. Come on, this way."

Rhiannon followed. She was a little worried about reaching a zone where the oxygen had been used up, as there were candles and braziers burning and they kept going down, but then she noticed that there were ventilation grilles set into the walls and her worries receded.

And, indeed, that proved to be the least of the things she should worry about. On they went, down a sloping passage with niches in its sides, in which were… mummified bodies. Grey-skinned, withered, with teeth showing behind shrunken lips. The passage leveled out, and widened, and then one of the mummies moved. It climbed out of the niche, stood up, and raised a sword and shield.

"Draugr!" Delphine hissed. She moved to engage it but then two more of the dead climbed from their alcoves and attacked.

The next few seconds were a frantic whirl of action. Rhiannon drew her swords and slashed, parried, and slashed again. She was vaguely aware of Delphine doing the same but her attention was concentrated on the hideous things attacking her. Then all three of the walking dead were down, hacked to pieces, and Rhiannon dropped her swords and sat down.

" _Ni all hyn fod yn wir_ _!_ " she wailed, and began to cry. " _Dw i eisiau mynd adre'. Dw i eisiau mynd adre'_ _!_ "

"Pull yourself together!" Delphine snapped. "You did well there. You slew two of them as I was slaying one. You're not a coward. Get up and stop crying."

Rhiannon wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and felt that it was wet with tears. "I want to go home," she said again, this time in English. "None of this can be real. Dead people don't just get up and try to kill you. Only on TV or in the movies. I want to go home."

"Then go home," Delphine said, "if you're not up to it. I can carry on from here."

Rhiannon fished a cloth from her pouch, luckily not one already bloodstained, and wiped her eyes. "I can't," she said. "I don't know how to get back. I made a wish, and I ended up here, and there are two moons and dragons and walking dead people and giants and giant spiders and it's all horrible."

"Two moons? How many do you think there should be?"

"There's only one moon and it's the proper size," Rhiannon said. "This must be another planet and I don't know how to get back to Earth."

"Earth? Where's that?" Delphine asked.

"A different planet," said Rhiannon. "We have microwaves and the Internet and hot showers and flush toilets and mobile phones and the spiders are the right size and dead people stay dead."

"I didn't understand any of that," Delphine said, "but I can understand how the draugr could be a shock to you if you've never even heard of them before. Come on, stand up, and pick up your swords. You say you… made a wish?"

"I wished to be a champion somewhere it would really mean something," Rhiannon said, "and the next thing I knew I was tied up in a cart on the way to get my head chopped off. I was in a nice hotel room in Philadelphia and then it was all different and horrible."

"What do you mean, a champion where it would mean something?"

"I was a wrestling champion but it was all fake," Rhiannon admitted. "We have to arrange the fights in advance, otherwise we'd be getting injured all the time, and I was only champion because it was planned that way. I was scheduled to lose the title next week." She got to her feet and retrieved her swords.

"Well, judging by what you did to that…" Delphine began, and then cried out and fell to her knees. Behind her Rhiannon saw the Dumner, holding a sword and a dagger, raising the weapons again after stabbing Delphine.

"Die, bitch!" the Dumner growled, kicking the wounded Delphine aside and heading for Rhiannon. He attacked with a lunge and Rhiannon parried in a move straight out of the stage-fencing course she'd taken at drama school. The thrust she delivered with her left-hand sword, hitting him under the ribs and driving through to burst out of his back, was not. She pulled the sword back, a gout of blood burst from the wound, and the thief made one feeble attempt to swipe at her with the dagger and then collapsed on his face.

At once Rhiannon rushed to Delphine. She was on her knees, bent over, supporting herself with one hand. The other was glowing with the same yellow light as when she had cast a healing spell on Hadvar. It didn't seem to be having any effect on the flow of blood that was running down her back, however, and Rhiannon grabbed for a potion and helped Delphine to drink.

It took two potions before the bleeding stopped and Delphine was able to stand. "Thanks," she gasped, "and well done. See? You are a natural fighter."

"It was my fault," Rhiannon said. "If I hadn't distracted you he wouldn't have come up behind and stabbed you."

"I'm not so sure," Delphine said. "He was stealthy enough. If you hadn't been here he might have jumped me while I was engaged with the draugr, or bided his time and seized another opportunity to attack." Her hand flared with light again and she stood straighter. "Ah, that's better. I should be able to carry on in a minute or two. I take it you're over your… moment of weakness and will be coming with me?"

Rhiannon wiped down her sword, trying to avoid looking at or thinking of the Dunmer thief who was bleeding his last on the ground near her feet. "Yes," she said, "I will."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Deadly traps. More draugr, including one who fired some kind of freezing ray from his hands at them, and others who were armed with bows. A corridor guarded by bladed pendulums which they had to pass by laying down at the side of the passage and crawling past the swinging blades. A chamber in which a waterfall tumbled down one wall into a fast-flowing shallow stream. A natural cave, through which the stream ran, illuminated by glowing fungi growing in clumps on the walls.

Delphine cut away a few of the fungi, stored them in her pack, and advised Rhiannon to do the same. "These are one of the ingredients in potions of Fortify Smithing," she explained. "They improve your eye for smithing, help you judge where to strike the hot metal and how hard, and improve your touch when using a grindstone or a whetstone. Even if you don't do any smithing yourself you can sell them to apothecaries or alchemists. But never take them all. Always use a few behind, so that they can regrow – and also so that you still have light to see."

They halted, there, and rested for a while. Rhiannon checked the time and found that it was half-past ten at night, at least according to her rough reset of her watch, and she realized that she was growing hungry. She broke into her packed lunch and shared it with Delphine, who produced slices of wrapped grilled fish as her contribution to the meal; it tasted like tuna.

Onward into a cavern where another waterfall cascaded down through a shaft that must have reached to the surface, admitting beams of moonlight, and poured into another underground stream. Beyond that more tunnels, more draugr, another barrier of swinging blades, and then they came to an area that was different from anything they had seen thus far.

This corridor, roofed with a low arching ceiling, had carvings on its walls. They appeared to depict processions of robed priests carrying immobile draugr into the presence of a tall figure with curved sacrificial daggers in his hands. Rhiannon had no idea what the carvings were supposed to mean but guessed it couldn't be anything good.

The passage ended at a door. A strange, stone, door in the center of which was set a metal disc bearing a picture of a claw and three holes. The spacing of the holes matched the prongs of the Golden Claw. And above that disc there were three semi-circles in the stone each set with another disc, each bearing a symbol; a moth, an owl, and a bear. A moment's fiddling revealed that the semi-circles were rings that could be rotated to reveal different symbols.

"It's a combination lock," said Rhiannon. "I would guess we're supposed to match it to the ones on the Golden Claw."

"That would be my guess also," said Delphine, and she turned the rings until they showed bear, moth, and owl. Then she inserted the prongs of the claw into the holes and turned the handle to rotate the central disc.

There was a grinding noise and the door began to slide downward. Delphine removed the claw and handed it to Rhiannon. "You can take it back to Lucan," she said. "Make good use of the Circlet of Archery."

"I'll try," Rhiannon said. She packed the claw away, as the door slid down to a fully open position, and then followed Delphine into the cavern that lay beyond.

Yet another waterfall plunged down from an opening in the roof above, and moonlight shone through to augment the light from several burning braziers. A stream ran from the bottom of the waterfall and disappeared into the rocky wall at the opposite side of the cavern. A stone footbridge crossed the stream and led to a large, flat, area where the stone floor had been shaped by sentient beings. A sarcophagus, hopefully not containing a Goa'uld System Lord, stood on this floor with a large metal-bound chest a few feet beyond it. And beyond that was a smooth wall with an alcove set into it. An alcove that was glowing.

Rhiannon took a few wary steps in that direction and was able to make out that only one small part of the alcove glowed. And she could hear something from that direction; voices… chanting. She couldn't make out what the words said but it definitely was a chant.

"Listen," Rhiannon said to Delphine, and had a sudden urge to add 'Do you smell something?' She suppressed that urge, as Delphine not only wouldn't get the reference but would be likely to think her crazy, especially after her breakdown earlier, and instead continued "Do you hear that chanting?"

"Chanting? No, I don't hear anything," Delphine said, "except the sound of the waterfall." She frowned. "Wait a minute – do you see anything glowing on that wall?"

"Yes," Rhiannon confirmed. "It looks like… writing. Something dangerous, is it?"

"I can't see it," Delphine said, "but if I'm right about what it is… you should go closer. Go right up to it."

"You can't see it? But it's bright blue," Rhiannon said. She took another few steps forward and was able to see that, yes, the wall was carved with writing, not in any alphabet with which she was familiar, and one word of that writing was glowing brightly. The chanting, a three-word phrase repeated over and over, grew louder the closer she went to the wall.

Suddenly the light everywhere else seemed to dim almost to nothing and the glowing word brightened without illuminating anything but itself. A wavering stream of blue energy seemed to shoot forth from it and into Rhiannon. A voice in her head seemed to shout 'FUS!' and, somehow, she knew that 'fus' meant 'force'. Then the glow went out, the light in the cavern returned to its previous state, and the chanting rose to one final climactic shout and then stopped.

" _Beth yn uffern_ _?_ " Rhiannon exclaimed. "What was that?"

Delphine stared at her. "Did something happen?"

"The glowing got brighter, and something shouted 'Fus', and then the glowing stopped," Rhiannon told her.

Delphine's eyes widened and she muttered something under her breath. Rhiannon couldn't hear her clearly enough to be certain but she thought Delphine had said "Dragon born. A… champion. Could it be?"

And then, with a loud cracking noise, the sarcophagus burst open and a figure rose up, tossing aside the sarcophagus lid, and climbed out

Another draugr, taller than the others, wearing a shield and wielding a hand-axe. It made for Delphine and attacked.

Rhiannon drew her swords and went to Delphine's assistance. The draugr turned its head toward her and shouted 'Fus!' A wave of shimmering force burst from its mouth, slammed into Rhiannon, and sent her staggering back to hit the wall. The draugr turned its attention back to Delphine and began striking at her with the axe, blocking with its shield as Delphine retaliated with her katana.

Rhiannon picked herself up, wondering what had just happened, and charged again. She reached the draugr successfully and struck out with her swords. The draugr Shouted again, this time at Delphine, and she was thrown backward a dozen feet and fell into the stream. Rhiannon hit the draugr once, it blocked her second blow, and then it aimed a slash with its axe at her head. She parried with her left-hand sword, struck again with her right, and again it blocked her blow with its shield. They traded blows, neither landing a successful strike, for some thirty seconds and then it shouted at her again.

This time she was ready for it and braced herself against the wave of force. She was pushed back only a couple of feet and managed to return to the attack almost at once. She slashed low, under the shield, and her blade bit deep into the draugr's hip. It growled and brought down its axe. Rhiannon aimed her parry, not at the axe itself, but at the arm holding the axe. It recoiled, a deep slice in the arm showing where the sword had connected, but there was no blood.

And then a katana blade burst out through the draugr's chest and sliced down through undead flesh. The eerie light in its eyes went out, it crumpled to the ground, and the axe skittered away across the stone. Behind the fallen draugr was Delphine, dripping wet, but unharmed.

"Are you hurt?" Delphine asked.

" _Dwi'n iawn. Su'mae?_ " Rhiannon answered. Delphine stared blankly and Rhiannon realized that she had been rattled enough to speak in Welsh. Hastily she reverted to English. "I'm fine," she said. "Are you all right?"

"Soaking wet, and a little bruised, but that's all," Delphine responded. "That was no common draugr. It used the Thu'um."

"The what?"

"Voice magic," Delphine explained. "The Nord legends tell of heroes who could Shout with the voice of dragons and produce powerful magical effects. A few people, to this day, have preserved the art. Ulfric Stormcloak can use the Voice, a little, although he's by no means a master."

"So that would be why the Imperials had him in a gag?" Rhiannon asked.

"I expect so," Delphine confirmed. She stared at Rhiannon, seeming to be appraising her yet again, and then relaxed. "The Dragonstone should be around here somewhere. Probably in the sarcophagus or in the chest."

It wasn't. The sarcophagus was empty. The chest, which wasn't locked, held two metal helmets, a pile of coins surrounded by the shreds of a purse that had long since rotted away, and a necklace of copper, green with verdigris, with a purple gem set in its pendant.

"An Amulet of Dibella," Delphine said. At Rhiannon's blank look she explained further. "It's a symbol of Dibella, goddess of beauty and love, and wearing it brings benefits to the wearer. It would make you more persuasive, better able to barter, and so on. I'd give it a polish first, though, before putting it on."

"Don't you want it?" Rhiannon asked.

"I'm fairly skilled at the art of barter already," Delphine said. "It goes with being an innkeeper. You take it, and the gold. I'll take the steel helm. It seems to have a minor Destruction enchantment on it. I don't wear heavy helmets but it will sell for a good price."

"And the other one?"

"Only iron, and rusty at that," Delphine said. "Not worth the effort of carrying. Now, where can that Dragonstone be if not here?"

An extensive search of the cave turned up two other chests containing a few saleable items. None of them fit the description of the Dragonstone. Eventually Delphine turned her attention to the dead draugr itself and found that it had a pouch strapped to its side. Inside the pouch was only one thing; a slab of stone. One side of it was engraved with writing in the same script as that on the wall. The other side seemed to be a crude outline map.

"This is what Farengar and I are after," said Delphine. "I'll take a rubbing of it before you take it to Whiterun. I can work from that."

"What is it?" Rhiannon asked.

"A map of Skyrim," Delphine replied. "You don't recognize it?"

"You didn't believe me, did you?" Rhiannon said. "I don't know anywhere in this world except Helgen, Riverwood, and Whiterun. What are those stars? Cities?"

"No," Delphine said. "Dragon burial sites, I believe, although it will need to be cross-referenced with Farengar's research before we can be certain. By the way, don't tell Farengar I was here. He doesn't know who I really am and I want to keep it that way."

"If you say so," said Rhiannon.

Delphine stooped and picked up the draugr's axe. "If the draugr was a cut above the rest, perhaps his weapon might be too. Ah, yes. A frost enchantment. Take it. Even if you don't use an axe you can sell it. Or use it to learn the enchantment and apply it to your swords. Farengar can help you with that."

Rhiannon took the axe, touched the blade, and felt an icy chill. "Thanks, I might do that," she said.

"I think we're finished here," Delphine said. "The stairs over there imply that there's an exit that way. Let's find out."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

It was one a.m. by Rhiannon's watch when they emerged from the barrow and found themselves some distance upriver from Riverwood. A brisk walk, briefly interrupted by a lone wolf that backed off from attacking once it saw that there were two humans, got them to the village by a little after two. They managed to reach the inn without encountering any of the village residents and Delphine ushered Rhiannon inside.

A man was dozing behind the bar, his head resting on the counter, and he straightened up and rubbed his eyes as they approached. He had long dark hair and a neatly-trimmed beard with no moustache, giving him a superficial resemblance to Neville, although in other respects he didn't look much like 'The Man That Gravity Forgot'.

"Delphine," he said, in a deep gravelly voice. "I was starting to get a little worried. Who've you got with you?"

"Orgnar, this is Rhiannon. She… helped me out in the barrow. Both of us could use a wash and a hot meal. I'll sort out a bed for her."

"I'm on it," said Orgnar. "There's some stew in the pot. It won't take long to heat up. I'll put some water on and get soap and a basin for the lady." He picked up a jug from under the counter, came out from behind the bar, and looked Rhiannon over. "Rhiannon, huh? You're that girl who saved Hadvar's life, right?"

"You could say that," Rhiannon said, "but it was more of a… two-way thing."

"That's not the way he tells it," said Orgnar, "but that's your business. I'll have things ready for your wash in just a minute."

A few minutes later Rhiannon was tucking in to a bowl of venison stew with bread. Delphine, now back in her blue dress and with the katana nowhere in evidence, joined her.

"You're going to need a companion if you're going to do any more dangerous missions for the Jarl or for Farengar," Delphine said, "and I wouldn't be surprised if they call on you again. You're good, better than you give yourself credit for, but you don't have the experience to go exploring tombs by yourself."

"I'm well aware of that," Rhiannon said. "Lara Croft or Indiana Jones I am not."

"Who?"

"Heroes of my world," Rhiannon said. "So, I need a henchman?"

"Exactly," said Delphine, "although a henchwoman might be better." Rhiannon could see the point of that; she'd been in situations already in which a male companion might have been… embarrassing. "There's a mercenary for hire in Whiterun about whom I've heard good things. She's called Jenassa and she stays at the Drunken Huntsman when she's between jobs. I haven't met her myself but she has a reputation as being loyal, fearless, and a skilled warrior. You could do worse than hire her, assuming she's not in someone else's employ at the moment, and you should have enough funds from what we picked up in the barrow to be able to afford her hiring fee. The only down side is that she's a Dunmer."

"Why would that be a down side?" Rhiannon asked.

"Well, if the only Dunmer you've met is that thief in the barrow, it might have given you a bad impression of the race," Delphine said. "Also, if you are called upon to go to Windhelm, she might hit some problems. Some of Ulfric's supporters are… less than fond of the Dunmer and Ulfric does nothing to discourage that attitude."

Rhiannon's opinion of Ulfric plummeted. "Racial discrimination?"

"Exactly," said Delphine.

"I have met another Dunmer besides the thief," Rhiannon said. "Irileth, the Jarl's bodyguard. She seemed really competent. If this… Jenassa is anything like her then she'd be great."

"The correct term for Irileth is 'Housecarl', rather than bodyguard," Delphine said, "although I suppose there isn't much difference in practice. Yes, Irileth indeed is highly competent and absolutely loyal. She's been Jarl Balgruuf's right hand for as long as I can remember. Jenassa is distant kin to Irileth, or so I've heard, although I can't confirm that for certain. Well, if you've nothing against the Dunmer, you should find Jenassa satisfactory as a hireling."

"I'll do that," Rhiannon said. "Where is the 'Drunken Huntsman'?"

"It's the first tavern you pass when you enter Whiterun," Delphine said, "on the other side of the street from the Warmaiden's shop and smithy, just a little further along. It's the best place in the city for buying or selling bows and arrows, as well as serving a good line of food and drink, and letting out a few rooms. Call in on the way to Dragonsreach, sell the bows we took from the draugr there, and see if Jenassa's available for hire."

"I'll do that," Rhiannon said. "There's something else I want to do as soon as I get to the city, though. Do you know of anywhere there that sells underwear?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon slept well, for what was left of the night, but had an odd dream. She dreamed that she was a contestant on the UK version of 'The Voice' and the coaches were Tom Jones, will. i. am, Rita Ora, and Vince McMahon. She went on stage for her audition, shouted 'FUS RO DAH!', and blew them all out of their revolving seats.

Once she was awake, and had recovered from the disorientation that was still affecting her on only her second morning waking up in this alien world, she put the meaningless dream out of her mind. After attending to the necessities, and eating breakfast, she left the inn.

The first person she saw as she stepped out of the door was a guard, wearing the same tabard and helm as those she had seen in Whiterun, patrolling the street. The Jarl's orders had been acted upon swiftly. Rhiannon wasn't sure how much help a few guards would be in the event of a dragon attack, considering what the dragon had done to Helgen, but perhaps they could at least help to cover an evacuation. It was better than nothing, anyway, and Rhiannon put the thought out of her mind and headed for the Riverwood Trader.

Orgnar had polished up the Amulet of Dibella for her, during the night, and she now wore it around her neck. Whether it was an effect of the amulet, or something that would have happened anyway, the delighted Lucan presented her with a Cure Disease potion as well as the promised Circlet of Minor Archery. She sold him a few of the things acquired in the barrow, providing a welcome boost to her finances, and purchased a couple more healing potions at a price 5 septims less than he had charged her the previous day. He didn't sell ladies' underwear, unfortunately, but his sister Camilla offered Rhiannon a set and took her upstairs to change.

Camilla was smaller and bustier than Rhiannon but the local version of bra and pants relied upon draw strings rather than elastic. She was able to adjust the garments so that they fit her moderately well and it was an improvement over continuing to wear her own set for another day. Perhaps there would be someone in Whiterun who did laundry – and who wouldn't ruin the bra and knickers with a boil wash, or by beating them against the stones of a river.

She noticed that Camilla was giving her some… odd looks after helping her change, and seemed slightly wary of her, but the girl didn't say anything and Rhiannon let it pass. Perhaps Camilla was simply surprised by the muscular development revealed when Rhiannon was stripped off; or perhaps Rhiannon had unwittingly done something that implied that she was a lesbian, which she wasn't, and Camilla was a little homophobic. It didn't seem important enough to bother about.

Next, in clean underwear and with the new circlet gleaming on her brow, Rhiannon headed over the road to Alvor's smithy. She sold him the few pieces of bandit and draugr armor and weaponry that they had bothered to pick up, except for the bows and the War Axe of Cold from the final draugr, lightening her load as well as improving her financial position. He offered to give her a lesson in smithing but she declined, explaining that she had to return to Whiterun, and he suggested that she travel there in the company of Hadvar.

The legionary was fully recovered, by now, after a day of rest and food to replenish his lost blood. He was delighted to see Rhiannon again – perhaps a little too delighted, Rhiannon thought – and declared that traveling to Whiterun with her would be both convenient and pleasant. They set off together shortly after nine.

The journey was uneventful. The only wildlife they encountered were a few rabbits and a deer that allowed them to get surprisingly close before sprinting off. They came upon a lone warrior, in battered iron armor and with a formidable greatsword strapped to his back, but he passed them by with nothing more than a casual greeting. Rhiannon spent most of the journey trying to discourage Hadvar's attempts to chat her up, without offending him, and trying not to think about how much her parents must be worrying about her.

She parted company with Hadvar at the Whiterun stables. She thought, for a moment, that she was going to try to kiss her; she pre-empted the move and gave him a firm handshake. Then Hadvar paid twenty septims for a carriage ride to Solitude and they parted company.

The cat-people's encampment was no longer where it had been. For a minute Rhiannon wondered if she'd imagined seeing it but bare patches in the grass, and a circle of burnt-out embers and ash, showed where their camp-site had been. They had been pushed from her mind by more urgent matters, until reminded of them by returning to the site, and it hadn't occurred to her to ask Delphine or Hadvar about the cat-people. She resolved to rectify that omission, the next time she was in a friendly conversation with a local, and walked on to the city gates.

This time she was admitted immediately, without question, and a minute later she was standing inside the Drunken Huntsman. The first thing she noticed was the fire pit in the center of the stone floor; warm, no doubt, but hardly the safest way of heating the place and cooking the food. Then her gaze traveled to the man who stood behind the counter and she had to force herself not to gawp, open-mouthed, in amazement.

He was an Elf. Not quite the same as the Dunmer, his skin was no darker than that of a sun-tanned human of Western European extraction, but the pointed ears protruding from his reddish hair were unmistakably elven. His eyes were sharply slanted and his cheekbones more… angular than on any human she had seen. Much more alien in appearance than, for example, Legolas as played by Orlando Bloom.

"Welcome, take a look around," he greeted her. "If you're after something you don't see, tell me. I might have it stored away."

"Actually I'd like to sell you something," she replied. "I have three bows taken from… draugr."

"Ah, Ancient Nordic pattern," the Elf said, as she laid the bows on the counter, "and in good condition. I should be able to resell them without too much trouble. I'll give you sixty septims for the three."

"Throw in a meal, not now but in an hour or two when I come back from Dragonsreach, and you have a deal," Rhiannon said. She was a little hesitant about attempting to barter but decided it was worth a try.

The Elf smiled. "I don't believe I've seen you in here before," he said, "but obviously you've heard about the quality of our food. Certainly. A fine dish of venison and potatoes, with apple pie to follow. Will that be suitable?"

"That sounds lush – excellent," Rhiannon said, and accepted the Elf's coin. "There's another thing," she said. "D- someone recommended that I hire a… mercenary called Jenassa and told me I could find her here. Is she around?"

"Indeed she is," said the Elf. "She's in the alcove over there."

Rhiannon headed in the direction indicated and saw a Dunmer woman sitting at a table, a tankard by her hand, engaged in reading a book. She wore the same style of leather armor as Irileth, had two swords at her hips, and a quiver of arrows rode on her back. Facially she bore little resemblance to the Jarl's Housecarl, being finer of feature and prettier, and her hair was dark brown rather than red.

The Dunmer looked up as Rhiannon approached. "I overheard what you said to Elrindir," she said. "You wish to hire me? I am an artist with my bow, and my swords, and like all artists I seek a patron. For a mere handful of gold I will follow you into any danger." Her voice was quite deep, for a woman, and her accent sounded very English Home Counties.

"The innkeeper at Riverwood recommended you to me," Rhiannon said. "She said you were loyal, skilled, and fearless."

"Oh?" Jenassa raised her eyebrows. "I have not been to Riverwood, and I was not aware that I was known there. Certainly I will not disagree with her statement. Never have I let down an employer, nor run from a fight, and I practice assiduously to hone my skills. Pay my fee, and together we will vanquish any foe."

"Uh, I've never hired a mercenary before," Rhiannon said. "How much is your fee? And do I pay you a wage?"

"Five hundred septims buys my services for as long as you wish," Jenassa said, "and you must pay for my food and board for as long as we travel together. Other than that, I expect no wage."

"So the five hundred would be a… retainer?"

"Exactly," said Jenassa. "Pay that fee, and you can be certain that none of your enemies would be able to hire me."

"I'll do that," Rhiannon said. She didn't have any enemies, as far as she knew, but if someone else hired Jenassa the Dunmer wouldn't be available to be her… henchwoman. "I don't have anything for you to do at the moment but I might have before long. It depends on what the Jarl says to me." She counted out five hundred septims, a little laboriously because she was not yet accustomed to the different denominations of the coinage, and handed them over. "I'm going up to Dragonsreach now but I'll be coming back here for a meal after that, unless the Jarl invites me to eat there, and I'll get back to you then."

"I shall be here," Jenassa said, and her previously somber face suddenly lit up with a smile. "I look forward to fighting at your side."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

When Rhiannon entered Farengar's room she saw the wizard bent over a workbench, grinding something up with a pestle and mortar, as a brightly-colored liquid bubbled away in a retort beside him. He stood up and turned around as he heard Rhiannon's approach.

"Ah, the Jarl's protégé," he greeted her. "Back from Bleak Falls Barrow, I hope? Do you have the Dragonstone?"

"I do," Rhiannon confirmed. She took off her backpack and extracted the stone slab. "It wasn't as simple as you made it sound."

"Come, come, you didn't die, and I'm sure the Jarl will reward you," Farengar said. He took the stone, set it down on a table, and peered at it. "Ah, excellent. Just as I had hoped. I must make a copy of this, for my… collaborator in this enterprise, and then cross-reference the writings with 'The Holdings of Jarl Gjalund'. So much knowledge of the dragon script has been lost over the centuries. Hmm. If only I had a copy of Brother Mathnan's 'Atlas of Dragons'. There might be one at the College of Winterhold…"

Rhiannon wondered if Farengar was going to set her another task, going to the College – wherever that might be – to retrieve the book, and she groaned inwardly. "Excuse me," she said. "I was wondering… could you teach me how to identify enchanted items? And maybe how to enchant things, if that's something you don't have to be a wizard to do?"

"I'm far too busy for such trivial matters," said Farengar, "but…" he stepped away from the table and went to a bookcase, "I do have a book that will give you the basics. Quite a valuable work, really, but you have done me a service and I think you deserve the book in return. If you can read, that is."

Rhiannon accepted the book and glanced at the title page. "Enchanter's Primer, by Sergius Turrianus," she read out. "A guide for novices in enchanting issued by the College of Winterhold."

"Ah, so you can read," the wizard said, returning to his examination of the Dragonstone. "A cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends me. I may well have further tasks for you in the future. You help me, and I'll see that you are rewarded. Both of us will benefit. However, for the moment, I have nothing more for you to do and I'm rather busy. Go and see the Jarl. No doubt he will reward you with gold, or perhaps a weapon, or some such trinket."

Rhiannon packed the book away in her knapsack and was just sliding her arms back through the straps when Irileth burst into the room.

"Farengar, you need to come at once," the Housecarl snapped out, sounding agitated. "A dragon has been sighted nearby." She turned her gaze on Rhiannon. "You should come too." She turned on her heel and strode off into the main hall. Rhiannon followed.

"A dragon? How exciting," Farengar exclaimed, at once abandoning his study of the stone and scurrying after Irileth. "Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

"I'd take this a bit more seriously if I were you," Irileth said in a stern voice. "If the dragon attacks Whiterun… I don't know if we can stop it."

Rhiannon followed Irileth through the hall, past the throne, and up some steps into a wide room in which the Jarl was standing. A Whiterun guard stood in front of the Jarl, bending over, seemingly panting for breath.

"Take off your helm, man," the Jarl commanded, "and take a few deep breaths. Now, Irileth tells me you've come from the Western Watchtower. What's this about a dragon?"

The guard, once he was able to control his breathing, recounted how a dragon had flown up from the south, appeared at the watchtower, and repeatedly circled the building. It hadn't attacked as yet but the commander of his detachment, fearing it was only a matter of time, had sent him for help and he had run all the way.

"You did well," said the Jarl. "Take yourself off to the barracks and get some food and rest. You've earned it." As the guard departed the Jarl turned to his Housecarl. "Irileth, you'd better gather some guardsmen and get down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the main gate," Irileth said.

"Good," said the Jarl. "Don't fail me." He noticed Rhiannon, who was standing at the back feeling useless, and addressed her. "Ah, the survivor of Helgen. Have you accomplished the task Farengar set you?"

"She has, my lord," Farengar said, before Rhiannon could speak. "Most efficiently. May I go with Irileth? I would very much like to see this dragon."

"No, I can't afford to risk both you and Irileth," the Jarl said. "I want you here working on ways to defend the city against dragons."

"As you command," said Farengar, disappointment evident in his tone.

The Jarl turned back to Rhiannon. "I need your help again. I want you to go with Irileth and help her to fight this dragon."

Irileth, who had been about to descend the steps, stopped and turned around. "Is that necessary, my Jarl? She is a stranger to the city and has no personal stake in its defense."

"It is her decision," said the Jarl. "Well? Will you aid us? You survived Helgen, so you have more experience with dragons than anyone else here."

Rhiannon wasn't sure that frantically fleeing and hiding really counted as experience with dragons. And she had seen the dragon at Helgen pretty much ignoring everything the garrison there had tried against it and doing to the town what Smaug had done to Laketown in the movie. Going with Irileth did seem like it might be a suicide mission.

On the other hand, staying in the city was no guarantee of safety, and turning the mission down would cause the Jarl to think less of her. And being a face was part of her nature, and she hated it when she was called upon to play a heel; helping out the underdog, and going up against odds, was what she did for a living – or, at least, pretended to do. Maybe Irileth, or Jenassa, might be able to play the part of Bard the Bowman…

"I will go to fight the dragon," Rhiannon said. A quote from _The Desolation of Smaug_ came to mind but she decided it was much too pessimistic to voice.

"Brave girl," the Jarl said, and beamed at her. "I haven't yet rewarded you for retrieving the Dragonstone for Farengar. Wait one moment." He turned back to Irileth. "One last thing, Irileth. This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we are dealing with."

"Don't worry, my lord," Irileth replied. "I am the very soul of caution."

"Hmmph!" Jarl Balgruuf snorted, as Irileth descended the steps. "If she is, that will be a big change from how she acted in any of the battles we fought together. Now, my friend, this way." He showed Rhiannon through a set of huge double doors, out onto a vast balcony, with a view of the sky visible through a wide opening at the far side. Part of the area was given over to wood and straw training dummies, with a couple of guards chopping and stabbing at them with swords, and there were archery targets against one of the walls. A row of armor stands stood nearby and Balgruuf led Rhiannon to one of them.

"Irileth believes this will fit you," he said, indicating a set of studded armor on one of the stands, "and she has a good eye for such things. Take it, as a token of my esteem."

It looked, to Rhiannon, very much like the set she already wore. "Thank you, my lord," she said, not wishing to sound ungrateful.

"The enchantment it bears will reduce the severity of any wounds you suffer, and slow any bleeding," Balgruuf went on. "Wear it with honor."

"I will try, my lord," Rhiannon said, now seeing the point of the gift. "Uh, is there somewhere I can change?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

It was raining when Rhiannon left Dragonsreach. Not hard, certainly not enough to bother a girl from Wales, and she thought it might even be some help against dragon fire. She could hope, anyway. The delay while she was receiving her new armor had allowed Irileth to get well ahead of her but Rhiannon's longer legs enabled her to catch up by the time the Housecarl was passing the Drunken Huntsman.

"I'll only be a minute!" Rhiannon called, and she hastened up the path and into the tavern. Jenassa was sitting in the same alcove as before, part-way through eating a bowl of stew, and she looked up as Rhiannon entered.

"Ah, here for your luncheon, no doubt," Elrindir the tavern-keeper said. "I'll serve it up at once."

"Sorry, I can't stop to eat now, I have an urgent errand for the Jarl," Rhiannon said. "Could I take a rain check on that?" Elrindir looked at her in obvious puzzlement and Rhiannon guessed that the Elf didn't understand the American term. "I mean, could you keep it until the evening, or maybe even tomorrow?" 'Assuming I survive that long', she added, in her mind, but didn't say out loud.

"Of course," Elrindir assented. "The Jarl's business must take priority."

Jenassa pushed away her half-empty bowl and stood up. "The Jarl has work for us, then?" she asked. "Excellent. My blades thirst for the blood of evil-doers."

When they left the tavern Irileth was addressing her small band of guards. Rhiannon only caught the tail end of Irileth's speech but she seemed to have done a good job of motivating the men. They seemed almost enthusiastic about the prospect of facing a flying, armored, fire-breathing monster.

"Now what do you say?" Irileth called. "Shall we go kill us a dragon?"

"Damn right!" one of the guards shouted, and the others uttered similar cries.

"A dragon?" Jenassa said. "Well, that will be different."

Irileth turned her head. "Jenassa," she said, her voice cold.

"Irileth," Jenassa responded.

"Are you going to help us against the dragon, or are you going to sit idly by because no-one has paid you?" Irileth asked.

"Rhiannon has paid me, and my skills are hers to command," Jenassa replied. "If she says we are to fight a dragon, so be it."

"Perhaps there's hope for you yet," Irileth said. "Let us be off!"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Irileth led the way at a jog. Rhiannon's normal training regime included a daily eight-mile run and the pace didn't bother her in the slightest.

"What was that between you and Irileth?" she asked her new hireling.

"My aunt… disapproves of some of my life choices," Jenassa explained. "She does not understand what things are like for someone without a regular position. It is different for her. She has the favor of the Jarl."

"I think we all will, if we live through this," Rhiannon said.

"If we don't," said Jenassa, "at least it will be a glorious death."

"If this is to end in fire, then we'll all burn together," said Rhiannon, giving voice to the quote from Ed Sheeran's theme song for _The Desolation of Smaug_ that had occurred to her earlier.

"Indeed so," said Jenassa, "although I have no intention of dying without making my slayer pay in blood."

"Me neither," Rhiannon agreed. "I'd rather stick to Buffy's Lesson One, 'Don't die', though."

They jogged on through farmland and out into wilder country. Within half an hour they came within sight of a stone tower.

It was on fire.

"No sign of any dragon right now," Irileth said, bringing her little company to a halt, "but it sure looks like it's been here. I know it looks bad, but we've got to figure out what happened, and if that dragon is still lurking around here. Spread out and look for survivors. We need to know what we're dealing with."

Rhiannon felt much more like turning and running all the way back to Whiterun. Somehow, though, she managed to suppress her fear. She bolstered her courage by humming _Men of Harlech_ and advanced with the others to within a few yards of what was left of the tower. Then a guard emerged from the wreckage and ran toward them.

"Get back!" he yelled. "It's still here somewhere. It grabbed Hroki and Tor when they tried to make a run for it."

"Get a grip on yourself, man," Irileth commanded. "What happened here? Where is the dragon now?"

"I don't know," the guard began, and turned around to point. "It flew – oh, no, Kynareth save us! Here it comes again!"

Rhiannon saw an unmistakable shape swooping down, approaching swiftly, and it took everything she had not to turn and run.

"Here he comes!" Irileth yelled. "Find cover and make every arrow count!"

Rhiannon readied her bow and did her best to follow Irileth's order. She ended up crouching beside a stone ramp that seemed to lead nowhere, coming to a dead end ten feet above the side of the road, either a remnant of an older ruin or else a new construction that had never been finished. Rhiannon didn't care which it was, only that it offered her at least some shelter from the dragon's attack. The dragon swooped by, exhaling a blast of fire, and then its course took it behind the tower and Rhiannon lost sight of it. Before then, however, she had noticed something significant.

"It's not the same dragon as the one at Helgen!" she shouted. It was paler, a greyish-green rather than the Helgen dragon's sinister jet black, and smaller. Not that it could be called small, as going by what she'd seen as it flew past the tower Rhiannon would guess it to be at least thirty feet long, but the monster at Helgen had been more than twice as big. And if you had to fight a carnivorous dinosaur, armed only with bow and sword, you'd far rather face an _Allosaurus_ rather than a _Spinosaurus_. Even if Wade Barrett, who had a degree in Marine Biology, had been very scathing about the portrayal of the _Spinosaurus_ in _Jurassic Park III_ and insisted that it wouldn't have stood a chance against the _Tyrannosaurus Rex_. "It's smaller. Much smaller."

"Hear that?" Irileth shouted. "We can kill it! Stand fast!"

Arrows flew as the dragon made another pass. Rhiannon loosed shaft after shaft, struggling to cope with hitting the fast-moving target, but some of the arrows struck home. Maybe the Circlet of Minor Archery was helping her. It was hard to keep track of what was happening around her but from what she did see she thought that Jenassa was hitting the dragon with virtually every shot. The guards seemed to be missing almost every time, and Rhiannon's arrows didn't appear to be achieving anything, but Irileth shot out a bolt of searing lightning from her hands and that definitely scored a hit. The dragon seemed to reel in the air, clipped the tower and shattered part of its ramparts, and then wheeled and headed directly for Irileth.

Irileth flattened herself against the end of the ramp and avoided being caught by the dragon's fiery breath. She retaliated with another lightning bolt, as the dragon went past in a strafing run, and the dragon roared in pain. It wheeled around and came into land.

" _Krif krin_ ," the dragon bellowed. " _Pruzah!_ " On the ground it walked on the knuckles of the arm that made up its wing, like the giant pterosaurs in _Planet Dinosaur_ , and it made for Irileth with an awkward gait that nevertheless covered the distance at great speed. It snapped at Irileth but she dodged and struck back with her sword. Then it rammed her with its snout and sent her flying back to crash into the end of the ramp and fall. A guard ran in, wielding his sword in an attempt to save his commander, but the dragon turned its head to meet him and snapped again. Its jaws closed on the guard, lifted him into the air, and then bit him in half.

Irileth was down on the ground, barely moving, her sword lying some distance from her outstretched hand. The dragon turned back toward her, raised its head, and gulped down the guard's body. Then it lowered its jaws toward Irileth.

"No!" Jenassa screamed, and she cast a despairing glance in Rhiannon's direction. Rhiannon realized that she wanted to go to Irileth's aid but felt bound by her commitment to guard Rhiannon.

"Go!" Rhiannon yelled, and Jenassa took off like an Olympic sprinter leaving the blocks.

"Die, dragon!" Jenassa cried, her twin swords coming out as she charged. The dragon turned away from Irileth and opened its mouth to bite at Jenassa. She avoided the snapping jaws and stood over Irileth, lashing out with her swords, keeping the dragon back at least temporarily.

Rhiannon felt something building inside her, an adrenalin surge that overrode all her fears, and an urge to get into close combat with the monster rather than peppering it with ineffectual arrows. She doubted if her swords would achieve much against its scales… but she had an axe. An axe that bore a frost enchantment… and this was a fire dragon. It should be weak against frost, at least according to D&D, and an axe might be better suited to chopping through the scales especially if she could get above the beast…

She rose from her sheltered position, pulled out the axe, and began to run up the ramp. " _Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn_ _!_ " she cried, as she ran. " _Ar gyfer_ _Y Ddraig Goch_ _!_ " She reached the end of the ramp and launched herself up and into the air, tucking in and turning over and over, then straightening and extending the axe and accelerating her rotation. The dragon raised its head, and sent a jet of flame in her direction, but now it was the one trying to hit a flying, fast-moving, target on an unpredictable trajectory and she sailed past untouched by the fire. Then Rhiannon came down.

She hit the dragon in the middle of the back, the whirling axe-blade striking first, impacting with a force far greater than she could have managed from a standing position. It struck one of the dragon's scales, split it in two, and carried on through to drive into flesh. Rhiannon landed an instant later, breaking her fall with ease as the axe had taken the brunt of the impact, and she was up on her feet in an instant. She wrenched the axe out of the wound, ran up the dragon's neck toward its head, and struck again.

The dragon cried out " _Dovahkiin? Nid!_ " and lifted its head high. Rhiannon lost her footing, slid down its neck, and found herself on its back again. She regained her feet, stood between its wings, and brought her axe down once more.

The dragon tried to turn its head around to face her. As the neck curved its scales moved apart slightly and gaps appeared between them. Jenassa inserted the point of her right-hand sword into a gap, dropped her left-hand sword, and brought that hand up to support the right. She put her full weight behind a thrust and drove the sword deep into the dragon's neck. Irileth scrambled to her feet, recovered her sword, and then emulated Jenassa's attack – and Irileth's sword carried the same frost enchantment as Rhiannon's axe.

The dragon tried to flap its wings to launch itself into the air, in a desperate attempt to escape, but one of the guards was now standing on a wing, stabbing at the body, and another was slicing great gashes through the membrane of the other wing. All it achieved was to make Rhiannon lose her footing, briefly, but she was up very quickly and striking again.

" _Yol…_ " the dragon gasped, weakly, and a feeble flicker of flame came out of its mouth and licked over Rhiannon. It was scarcely hotter than the blast of air from a hair dryer and Rhiannon hardly noticed it. Then the dragon's neck shot out straight, its tail thrashed once, and its legs gave way. Rhiannon jumped down as the body sagged under her.

Irileth heaved at her sword and pulled it out from under the dragon's scales. "Let's make sure this overgrown lizard is really dead," she said. She gave Jenassa a curt nod. "Thanks," she said, and turned her attention back to the guards. "Bravely fought, boys."

"She… flew!" one of the guards exclaimed, staring at Rhiannon. "She flew into the air to fight the dragon."

"I jumped from the ramp," Rhiannon corrected him, "to land on its back." She wasn't surprised that he was exaggerating, it wasn't likely that anyone here would have seen anything like the high-flying maneuvers of modern wrestling, but she didn't want anyone to think that she had super-powers. And the effort had left her exhausted and aching. "That's all I did."

"It was… astounding," another guard gasped.

"What I saw of her leap was impressive," Irileth conceded. Blood was running down her face from a wound on her forehead but she paid it no heed. "That was the hairiest fight I've ever been in, and I've been in more than a few."

Rhiannon became aware of a crackling sound, coming from the dragon, and then flames began to lick up from between its scales.

"What's happening?" cried the guard who had been standing on a wing, and he retreated hastily back to solid ground.

"Everybody get back!" Irileth ordered. The guards hastened to obey. Jenassa wrenched her sword from out of the dragon and joined them in their retreat. Rhiannon followed suit but then felt something rushing into her.

The dragon lit up in a blinding display of light and then a stream of energy shot forth from the corpse and entered Rhiannon. She felt no pain, no heat, but instead she felt rejuvenated, the tiredness and strain vanishing, as fresh and alert as if she'd just had done the Ice Bucket Challenge and then had six cups of strong coffee. The light dimmed and the dragon's body re-appeared; or rather its skeleton did. The flesh had melted away and only bones, and a few odd scales, remained.

Everyone stared at Rhiannon. One of the Whiterun guards was first to speak.

"I don't believe it!" he said. "You're… Dragonborn!"

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English meanings of Welsh phrases:

· _Beth yn uffern_ _?_ = What in hell?

· _Ni all hyn fod yn wir_ = This can't be real

· _Dw i eisiau mynd adre'_ = I want to go home

· _Dwi'n iawn. Su'mae?_ = I'm fine. How are you?

· _Y Ddraig Goch ddyry gychwyn_ _!_ = The Red Dragon will lead the way!

· _Ar gyfer_ _Y Ddraig Goch!_ = For the Red Dragon!

English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

· _Fus Ro Dah_ = Force Balance Push

· _Krif krin_ = Fight courageously

· _Pruzah!_ = Good!

· _Dovahkiin? Nid!_ = Dragonborn? No!

· _Yol_ = Fire


	4. Wrestlemania?

**Four: Wrestlemania?**

Rhiannon shook her head. The guard had told her a lot of things, very little of which she'd understood, and now she was thoroughly confused. "I don't understand any of this," she said. "You're telling me I have the blood of a dragon? What, because my dad fought under the name of Gareth 'the Dragon' Morgan, except when he was doing a stint with the WCW, and I was Rhiannon the Dragon in NXT until they simplified it when I moved up to the main roster? That was just because the Red Dragon is the national emblem of Wales."

"Well, I didn't understand any of that," said the guard, "so we're even."

"I don't even know who Tiber Septim is," Rhiannon continued.

"What?" This guard wasn't wearing a full-face helmet and Rhiannon could see his eyebrows shooting up. "You don't know about Tiber Septim? The founder of the Empire?"

"Well, that would explain why the money is called Septims," Rhiannon said. "I'm a stranger in this w… country. Forget I said that. Is a 'Dragonborn' some sort of… mystical warrior?"

"The Dragonborn can kill a dragon and steal its power," said a different guard, "and we just saw you do that. There's an easy way to prove it. If you really are Dragonborn, like out of the old tales, you ought to be able to Shout. Can you? Have you tried?"

Rhiannon remembered the draugr in the last chamber of the barrow, and the way it had knocked down both her and Delphine with the power of its voice, and she remembered the word that had appeared in glowing letters on the chamber's wall. And what Delphine had told her afterwards. Suddenly she knew what to do.

"FUS!" she Shouted. A wave of energy burst from her mouth and slammed into the guards. They went stumbling back, one of them tripping and falling on his backside, and Rhiannon put her hand to her mouth.

"Sorry!" she gasped. "Are you all right? I hope I haven't hurt any of you."

"That was Shouting, what you just did," said the guard who had fallen over. He got to his feet and brushed himself down. "That proves it. You really are Dragonborn."

"Only the Dragonborn can Shout without being trained by the Greybeards," another added. "No wonder you could slay the dragon."

"I didn't slay the dragon," Rhiannon protested. "We all did it together."

"You flew through the air and descended upon it like a thunderbolt," said the guard. "You struck the killing blow."

Rhiannon honestly had no idea who had been the one to deliver the finishing strike. It might have been her but it might equally well have been Jenassa, or Irileth, or one of the guards. She suspected the dragon had succumbed to the cumulative effect of multiple wounds and to give any one person the credit would be inaccurate. "I didn't fly," she pointed out for the third time. "I just jumped."

"Well, I don't know about this Dragonborn business," Irileth said, "and I don't know whose blade brought the dragon to its final end, but I know one thing. Here is a dead dragon. And a warrior who can, at the very least, play a major part in slaying one is someone I want on our side."

"I am," Rhiannon assured her. At least as long as Irileth wasn't talking about the civil war; Rhiannon still had no firm idea about the rights and wrongs of each side and really hoped that she could stay out of it.

"Good," said Irileth. "I had better get back to report to the Jarl. This affair is too… involved for me to delegate the task to a subordinate. Balthmar, you're in charge in my absence. Prepare the bodies of the fallen for transport to Whiterun, for burial, and see what you can salvage from the tower. You two, come with me."

Jenassa gave Irileth a look that said, as plainly as if she had said it out loud, 'I don't take orders from you.' Instead she turned to Rhiannon. "My patron, we should gather up the scales that have fallen from the dragon," she suggested. "It may be possible to fashion armor from them, or perhaps a shield, and if not then I am sure they would sell for a good price. And none have more right to them than you."

"Us," said Rhiannon. She looked at Irileth. "Is it all right if we take a few minutes to do that?"

"Very well," Irileth said, "but don't be too long about it."

"Dragonborn," one of the guards addressed Rhiannon, "what did you shout as you attacked the dragon? It sounded like the war-cries of the Witchmen of the Reach. You're not… one of the Forsworn, are you?"

"The what?" Rhiannon had no idea who the Forsworn were but 'Witchmen' didn't sound good. She realized that she'd been slipping into Welsh more and more, the longer she spent here, and she resolved to stick to English as much as possible in future. She was attracting too much attention as it was and it might be best not to stand out too much, while she was finding her feet in this world, at least until she'd learned the difference between acceptable self-promotion and making yourself a target. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Don't be stupid, Asgarne," said another guard. "She's the Dragonborn. How could she be one of those savages?"

"I suppose not," Asgarne agreed. The guards began to talk among themselves until Irileth broke up their discussion and allocated them tasks.

Rhiannon joined Jenassa at the dragon skeleton. She thought of retrieving the dragon's skull, to be a match for the one mounted above the Jarl's throne, but it crumbled under the pressure of her fingers as she examined it. Whatever had caused the dragon's flesh to burn away, as the stream of energy had left the corpse and entered Rhiannon, seemed to have had a corrosive effect on the skeleton and left it with hardly more structural integrity than a meringue. The few scales that had come loose before then, however, were intact and seemed to be as hard as steel. She recovered two, and two halves of a scale that must have been the one shattered by her axe, and a single loose bone that was still solid and heavy.

"A strange transfiguration," Jenassa remarked. "Had it been like this when we fought it we could have crushed it with ease."

"Have you two finished yet?" Irileth demanded. "We have delayed long enough."

"I think we've got everything," Rhiannon answered. "I'm ready to go." She followed Irileth, with Jenassa at her heels, as the Housecarl strode off toward Whiterun.

The rain had stopped, by this time, and it would have been quite a pleasant walk if Rhiannon hadn't been ravenously hungry. She doubted if Irileth would allow her to stop off at the Drunken Huntsman for her promised meal. Oh, well, maybe the Jarl would feed her again.

And then there was a tremendous noise and the world shook.

Or seemed to, anyway, although as Rhiannon recovered her footing she realized that none of the nearby drystone walls and farm buildings appeared to have suffered any damage whatsoever. Only the people seemed to be affected. Then the thunderous sound became words.

"DO…VAH…KIIN!"

And then all was calm again. In the nearest field a ploughman took his hands away from his ears and stood, open-mouthed, looking around in all directions. The plough-horse plodded on, unperturbed, until the unguided plough slewed and tipped over onto its side. Shaggy cows, looking to Rhiannon very much like Scottish Highland cattle, continued to graze placidly.

Rhiannon bit back a Welsh exclamation. Perhaps she needn't have bothered to suppress it as both Irileth and Jenassa exclaimed, simultaneously, " _B'vek!_ " Rhiannon guessed that this was the Dunmer version of 'Fuck!' or something similar. Both of the Dunmer women put hands to their swords and looked around.

"The… dragon said that, just before it died," Rhiannon said.

"It did? I could not distinguish the words within its roars," said Irileth. "Was that sound, then, another dragon?"

"If so, then we shall kill it too," said Jenassa.

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Rhiannon quoted.

"Well spoken, sera," said Irileth, "but I do not see any other dragon and there has been no further cry. We must press on. The Jarl awaits our return and our report."

They continued on and reached the gates of the city. The guards there were engaged in an argument with the first non-white humans Rhiannon had seen in this world; dark-skinned men, in robes and headgear that bore a slight resemblance to the Tuareg headdress or to a hijab, who wore scimitars at their belts. They were being refused entry to the city. As Rhiannon herself had been denied entry, the day before, she didn't bother speculating about the reason. The gates were opened for Irileth without hesitation, of course, and Rhiannon and Jenassa followed her through and on into the city.

Irileth strode on at a rapid pace, her eyes fixed firmly ahead, and there was no opportunity for conversation. They passed by the Drunken Huntsman with Rhiannon only able to give a wistful glance at the place that held the promise of a hot meal. They walked on past houses, a large building from which emanated the smell of baking bread, a pottery, a carpenter's shop, through the market and past the shops that surrounded it, and up the steps to the next level of the city.

The preacher was still ranting in front of the statue of the warrior. 'A Manic Street Preacher,' Rhiannon thought, bringing a smile to her lips, and as they climbed the next set of steps she hummed _If You Tolerate This Your Children Will Be Next_ under her breath.

"Good, you're finally here," the Jarl's steward greeted them, as they entered the hall of Dragonsreach and approached the dais on which the throne stood. "The Jarl's been waiting for you."

Irileth treated this statement of the obvious with the contempt it deserved and marched past Proventus without speaking. Rhiannon and Jenassa accompanied her and, behind them, Proventus shrugged and followed.

The Jarl was talking with a tall and powerfully-built warrior, whose scale armor had a pair of goat's horns sticking out from its pauldron, but he broke off as they approached.

"Irileth," Jarl Balgruuf said. "The look-outs report that they can no longer see the dragon. Did you kill it?"

"We did, my lord," the Housecarl replied. "The watchtower was destroyed but we killed the dragon."

"Well done, Irileth. I knew I could count on you," said the Jarl. His gaze moved to Rhiannon and Jenassa. "And was… Rhiannon… a help to you? And I see the mercenary who resides at the Drunken Huntsman. Presumably she played a part or you would not have brought her."

"My cousin's daughter was recruited by Rhiannon to aid us," Irileth said. Rhiannon realized that when Jenassa had referred to Irileth as her aunt she had been simplifying 'first cousin once removed'. "Indeed she played a part. She may have saved my life and, also, she wounded the dragon severely. And Rhiannon… without her I doubt that we could have slain the dragon. She leapt upon its back and smote it most mightily. Her bravery gave the rest of us the chance to attack. The greater part of the credit for the dragon's fall must go to her."

"Impressive," said the Jarl. "My thought that the survivor of Helgen would have something to contribute was correct. Rhiannon, I have instructed Avenicci that you are permitted to purchase property in the city. I shall think further upon how else to reward you. And you, mercenary, shall receive a suitable reward also."

"My Jarl, there is more," Irileth said. "When the dragon died… something happened. It was a little like the effect of a Soul Trap spell but not the same. A kind of… energy left the dragon and went into Rhiannon. My lord… the guards declared that she was Dragonborn. They called upon her to Shout and she did. It was like the reports we had of the slaying of King Torygg by Ulfric Stormcloak. Her voice drove them back and knocked one to the ground. I have never seen anything like it."

"Dragonborn," Balgruuf said, almost reverently. "So it is true. The Greybeards really were summoning a Dragonborn."

"The… Greybeards?" Rhiannon echoed.

"Masters of the Way of the Voice," Balgruuf explained. "They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

"And they… summoned me?"

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?" the warrior with the horny armor put in. Rhiannon had noticed him before, when she'd eaten in the hall the previous day, but they hadn't spoken and really only the odd armor had caught her eye. "That was the voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in… centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora."

"Hrongar, calm yourself," Proventus Avenicci said. "What does any of that Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable a warrior as she may be, surely 'Dragonborn' was merely one of the titles of the Septim line of emperors."

"Nord nonsense?" the big man, Hrongar, spluttered. "Why you puffed-up, ignorant… these are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire."

"Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci," Balgruuf said. "He's an Imperial. He doesn't know our customs and our history."

"I meant no disrespect," Avenicci back-pedaled. "It's just… what do these Greybeards want with her?" Rhiannon decided that Proventus Avenicci fell into the classification of 'weasel'.

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours," said the Jarl.

"Did I hear right?" Farengar Fire-Beard called, approaching at a fast walk. "The dragon is dead? And this girl is the Dragonborn? How exciting! I must talk with her."

"Later, Farengar," the Jarl said. He turned back to Rhiannon. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you're Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately."

"Immediately?" Rhiannon managed to suppress a groan. "Where is High Hrothgar?"

"You don't know? It is atop the Throat of the World, the great mountain that you can see to the south-east. The base of the mountain is not that far from here, you could walk it in half a day, but there is no route up from this side. You need to go to Ivarstead, at the far side of the mountain, and climb the Seven Thousand Steps. I envy you, you know. I made that pilgrimage once. High Hrothgar is a peaceful place. Very… disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder if the Greybeards even notice what is going on down here. They haven't seemed to before. No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Rhiannon waited for the Jarl's rambling to end and then went back to the point that mattered. "So, how do I get to… Ivarstead? How far is it?"

The Jarl pursed his lips. "You will need to go around the mountain. The roads are… not as safe as they were, before this war started. I would have said that the best route was the southern one, by way of Helgen, stopping there overnight and then setting off at dawn the next morning. A full day of brisk walking would have brought you to Ivarstead not too long after nightfall. But if Helgen has been destroyed… you would have to camp in the ruins, or else make camp somewhere on the trail. The northern route is longer. Much longer, if you stay on the roads, and the direct path is hard to follow and more perilous. The southern route, by way of Helgen and the road that leads past Haemar's Shame, may be the best after all."

This time Rhiannon wasn't quite able to suppress her groan. "I can't just set off on a journey like that," she protested. At least a day and a half of hard walking, and then climbing seven thousand steps – and she doubted that having been to Glastonbury a couple of times really qualified her for camping out in the wilderness.

"There is no refusing the summons of the Greybeards, girl," Hrongar said, sternly.

"I don't think that's what she meant, brother," said the Jarl. "It had slipped my mind that she lost all her possessions at Helgen. No supplies, nothing with which to make camp, we cannot expect her to set off into the wilderness with just what she has on her as she stands before us."

"That's it exactly," Rhiannon said.

"Well, the Greybeards cannot rightfully complain if you take a day or two to prepare yourself before you set out," Balgruuf said.

"And she can find time to tell me all about the dragon," Farengar added.

The Jarl laughed. "Patience, Farengar," he said. "I have not forgotten that I charged you with researching dragons. You will get your chance to talk to those who faced it soon enough. It is, perhaps, less urgent now that the dragon is dead."

Farengar's face fell. "But… there might be more dragons," he said, sounding almost hopeful.

"There are," Rhiannon confirmed. "The dragon at Helgen wasn't the one we just killed. The Helgen dragon was bigger. Much bigger."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Fascinating," Farengar said. "The dragon's skeletal integrity must be, in some way, dependent upon the presence of its vital essence."

"Presumably," said Rhiannon, who was by this time so hungry that she was starting to wonder if Farengar would fit between two slices of bread, and so thirsty that she might even have accepted a cup of tea made by an American. "I picked up an intact bone before the skeleton turned into a Cadbury's Crunchie without the chocolate coating."

"A what?"

"Uh, a brittle and crumbly delicacy of my people," said Rhiannon, hoping that she wasn't actually drooling. "So, what will you give me for the dragon bone?"

"Two hundred septims," Farengar offered.

Rhiannon had no idea whatsoever if this was a fair price, or if she could get more elsewhere, but she thought she might as well try to haggle. Time to see if watching _Bargain Hunt_ , _Pawn Stars_ , and _American Pickers_ had given her any ranks in the relevant skill. "Three hundred," she counter-proposed.

"Two hundred and twenty," Farengar raised his offer.

"I acquired a dragon bone too, my patron," Jenassa said. "Do you wish to sell it also?"

"Five hundred… and fifty… for the two," Rhiannon suggested.

Farengar stroked his chin. "You strike a hard bargain, Dragonborn. Four hundred and fifty, and a spell tome of Healing."

Rhiannon was tempted; being able to heal herself without potions sounded good. But she had a companion to consider… "Four hundred and fifty, the tome of Healing, and a tome of…" she searched her memory for what Delphine had called the spell she'd cast on Hadvar, "…Healing Hands."

Farengar hesitated for a long moment and then said "Agreed, on condition that you do something for me. I have some research notes that I need to deliver to my collaborator. If you will take them to the inn at Riverwood, and leave them with the barman there for collection, I will pay your asking price for the dragon bones."

"Done," said Rhiannon. The route to Ivarstead via Helgen would take her through Riverwood anyway, and so she could kill two birds with one stone, and she wanted to ask Delphine a few questions too. She gave Farengar her bone, Jenassa did the same, and Farengar counted out a stack of gold coins and took two books down from his shelves.

"Half of this should be yours," Rhiannon told Jenassa.

"No, sera, by the terms of our agreement it all belongs to you," Jenassa said. "If you wish to pay me a bonus I will accept, of course, but you are under no obligation to do so."

"Well, if fighting a dragon doesn't qualify you for a bonus, I don't know what does," Rhiannon said. She split the coins into two piles of two hundred and twenty-five septims and pushed one over to Jenassa. "What about the… spell books?"

"I thank you, my patron," said Jenassa. She scooped up the coins and pocketed them. "The books would be of no use to me. I have, alas, no talent for magic at all."

Rhiannon wondered if the same would apply to her. She still had the feeling that, if she tried, she'd be able to shoot sparks of electricity from her fingers but she hadn't put it into practice. Perhaps she, too, would prove to have no talent for magic and the spell books would be useless to her. It would be worth a try, though, and she'd come out of it with more money than Farengar's first offer even without counting the spell books. A successful use of a Haggle skill.

A thought struck her. When she had played D&D her character had been a Ranger but she had taken one level as a Thief in order to get Lock-picking, Trap Sense, Appraise, and Backstab. She'd used Backstab on the first person she had killed in Helgen Keep, she'd picked a lock in Bleak Falls Barrow, and the Appraise skill would have covered her negotiation with Farengar. As a Ranger she'd selected Combat Style: Two-weapon Combat. She hadn't quite reached the level that would have enabled her to cast spells but, if she had, it would have been Cure Light Wounds that she picked first. And now here she was, wearing a sword at each hip, choosing spell-books of healing. Had she actually turned into her D&D character? Had killing the dragon enabled her to go up a level? Or was it just that she'd chosen to play a Ranger because she liked to picture herself as a warrior in light armor, dual-wielding swords, and she was equipped that way now for the same reason?

Her chain of thought was broken by Irileth entering Farengar's chamber. "Rhiannon Dragonborn, the Jarl summons you," she announced. "Jenassa, you also are included."

Rhiannon followed Irileth back into the main hall, hoping very much that this was an invitation to dine, and Jenassa followed a few paces behind. The Jarl was seated on his throne, cradling a one-handed axe in his lap, and Proventus Avenicci and Hrongar stood at his sides.

"Rhiannon Dragonborn," the Jarl greeted her, "you have done a great service for me and this city. By my right as Jarl I name you Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that is within my power to grant. I present you with this weapon, from my personal armory, to serve as your badge of office." He held the axe out to Rhiannon and she took it. "I'll inform my guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them to think you're just part of the common rabble, now, would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn."

Rhiannon searched her memory for what little she knew about thanes, which mainly came from watching _Time Team_ , browsing Wikipedia, _Macbeth_ , and her minor role in _Whiteblade_ , and which might not be relevant to this world. Would there be a holding of land involved? Or a commitment to military service in the Jarl's forces? She hoped not. Turning the honor down would be taken as an insult, she guessed, and there didn't seem to be any other option than to accept the title. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf, I am honored," she said.

"It is mainly an honorary title, although it does carry some privileges," the Jarl continued. "You have the right to act as an advisor in my court but I am under no obligation to accept your advice. I will, however, always give it due consideration. I would not lightly dismiss the words of one such as yourself who is, plainly, favored of the gods. And as a Thane you are entitled to a Housecarl. I had thought to assign you a Housecarl from my own retinue but, as you have already chosen a comrade-in-arms, you may prefer to take Jenassa as your Housecarl rather than just as a paid mercenary."

Rhiannon glanced at Jenassa. The Dunmer's face was impassive, unreadable, which seemed to be pretty much her default state. "That would depend on what she wants," Rhiannon said. "If Jenassa's happy about it, then I am too. I don't think I could ask for a better – what's the word? – Shield-Sister." Not that she had a lot to go on but fighting a dragon was a pretty severe test, after all, and Jenassa had come through it with flying colors.

Jenassa's face suddenly lit up with a smile. "You honor me greatly, patron," she said. She turned to face Jarl Balgruuf. "Serjo Jarl, I have already pledged my swords to Rhiannon. I would be happy to formalize that by accepting the post of Housecarl."

"Then so shall it be," Balgruuf said. "I shall let my guards know when I inform them of Rhiannon's position. And you, too, shall receive a weapon from my armory."

"Can it be a bow?" Jenassa requested. "I have little skill with an axe, serjo, and my swords are a matched pair."

"I see no reason why not," said the Jarl. "Irileth, take Jenassa to my armory and find a bow that suits her."

"At once, my Jarl," said Irileth, and then the stern expression on her face changed, for the first time that Rhiannon had seen, into a smile. "I am proud of you, kinswoman," she told Jenassa.

"Thank you," Jenassa said curtly, and she followed Jenassa to the steps up at the side of the hall.

"Now can Rhiannon continue to tell me about the dragons?" Farengar asked.

"You have had time enough, Farengar," said the Jarl, "and it grows late. The shops will be closing soon and I expect that there are things Rhiannon will want to purchase before she finds herself a room for the night."

So being made a Thane didn't entitle her to stay in the castle. And there was no sign that she was going to be invited to dine, either. Yes, there were things she wanted to buy. A comb, a towel, clean foot-wraps, clean underwear… and a toothbrush, assuming they had them in this world. Her most urgent need, however, she might be able to fill here and now.

"Tomorrow, perhaps, if she can spare you the time," the Jarl continued. Farengar pouted, not an expression Rhiannon would have expected to see on a wizard; Gandalf wouldn't have been impressed. "Now we have other things to consider. It is not enough that there are dragons; I have had a report that Ulfric Stormcloak has been sighted, heading for Windhelm, so he did not perish at Helgen. The war is still on. I feel this is not a matter in which the Dragonborn should become involved. Concern yourself with the dragons, Rhiannon, and leave the war to us. Go to the Greybeards as soon as you are ready. Is there anything else I can do for you before Jenassa returns and you leave Dragonsreach?"

That sounded like a dismissal. But there was something Rhiannon wanted before she left. "My Jarl," she said, "how does Dragonsreach get its water?"

The Jarl's brow creased. "There is a spring," he said. "Water bubbles up from deep within the ground. It was here before the castle, before the city, perhaps even before the Skyforge. Clean, and fresh, and enough to supply the whole city so that our supply is assured even in the event of a siege."

Rhiannon sighed with relief. "In that case," she requested, "may I have a drink of water?"

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"A hot bath? Yes, you can have one, for twenty septims," the innkeeper told Rhiannon, "but I'm afraid I won't be able to spare the staff to heat the water and fill the tub for… at least an hour, I would say."

"I can wait," Rhiannon said. Twenty septims for a bath seemed excessive, considering that renting a room for the night was costing only ten septims, but then it occurred to her that heating water over a fire, and carrying the hot water around in buckets or jugs, must be pretty labor-intensive in a world without piped water.

"Will you be wanting a meal?"

"I ate at the Drunken Huntsman," Rhiannon said. She had hoped to stay there, too, but it only had three guest rooms and all were occupied. Jenassa's room was tiny, with a single bed and not even enough space on the floor for a bed-roll, and so Rhiannon had had no option but to look elsewhere. It had been a choice between the sort of laborers' boarding houses that would be called 'flophouses' in America or this inn, the Bannered Mare, that catered to the more prosperous section of society.

The innkeeper brushed a stray strand of greying hair back from her face. "Just as well. We're busy tonight and Saadia is struggling to keep up with the meal orders. I'll show you to your room." She called over to a waitress. "Olfina, take over at the counter for a minute while I go upstairs."

A few minutes later, after stashing her bulkier items in her room and combing her hair, Rhiannon went back downstairs. She still hadn't found out if tea was known in this world and, if it was, she wanted some. Failing that, or a non-alcoholic cold drink, she'd make do with the weakest ale available or, possibly, watered wine. Getting drunk in this world, when she was feeling her way through unfamiliar attitudes and customs, didn't seem to be a terribly good idea. There were still things about American culture that baffled her, even after working in that country for two and a half years, and this place was far more alien.

The fight that was going on when she re-entered the inn's main room only emphasized that point. For a moment she regretted having told Jenassa that she didn't need a bodyguard for the evening, and that she should stay in the Drunken Huntsman, but a longer look told her that she didn't need to be worried.

It was a fist-fight, so presumably non-lethal, and the inn's clientele didn't seem to be worried. Some were shouting encouragement and some appeared to be ignoring it altogether. It didn't appear to be an organized contest, though, as the two combatants had been just part of the crowd when she'd passed through earlier. One was a fairly tall and burly man, clad in an iron cuirass, who wore a horned helmet. The other was a woman, just as tall and solidly-built, in full plate armor but with no helm. Both wore the gauntlets that went with their armor and the result was… brutal.

The man was swinging wildly, putting a lot of power into his blows, but achieving little. The woman was taking him apart with crisp, precise, left jabs and vicious right crosses. She wasn't completely unmarked, a bloody graze on one cheek showing where one of her opponent's blows had struck home, but Rhiannon guessed that the woman had blocked the punch at least partially and was barely hurt. Before long the fight reached its inevitable conclusion and the man measured his length on the floor. His helmet came off and rolled away.

"Had enough?" the woman asked, her voice harsh. The man tried to climb to his feet but she kicked him in the ribs and knocked him down again. None of the bystanders raised any protest and Rhiannon made a mental note that kicking a man when he was down didn't seem to be frowned on here. His armor would have taken the brunt of the kick but, even so, it seemed to have knocked the breath from his lungs. "Well? Do you give up?"

"I… yield," the man croaked out. "You win."

"Pay up, then," the woman demanded. "One hundred septims."

Rhiannon didn't bother to listen further and headed for the bar to find out if she could get a cup of tea. The answer was no, unfortunately, but she did find out where she might be able to find some at another time. For the moment she made do with a drink made from 'snowberries', which tasted rather like a mixture of cranberry and blueberry juice, and which cost twice as much as mead. The loser of the fight stumbled his way to the bar, asking through pulped lips for a healing potion, and Rhiannon moved out of his way and looked for a seat.

There were no unoccupied tables at all and Rhiannon followed the same principle she'd have used back on Earth; she saw a woman and child sitting at a table and asked if they minded if she sat with them. The woman welcomed her with a smile, Rhiannon sat down, and at once the woman, whose name was Carlotta Valentia, engaged her in conversation.

What Rhiannon wanted to know was where she could buy those necessities she hadn't managed to find in twenty minutes of frantic shopping before the last of the shops bordering the market had closed. What she found out was that the price of farm tools was rising, as the blacksmiths were all busy making weapons, and that this rise was affecting the price of the produce Carlotta sold at her fruit and vegetable stall in the market. This was harming her business and, to make matters worse, Carlotta was being harassed by an unwanted suitor.

"It's getting to the point where I won't come in here unless Mila is with me," Carlotta said, referring to her nine-year-old daughter. "He restrains himself in front of her, at least to some extent, but when I am alone he can be… obnoxiously pressing. And he wrote a book, _A Gentleman's Guide to Whiterun_ , and he included some… overly familiar references to me. It was acutely embarrassing."

This wasn't the sort of conversation you'd strike up with a random stranger unless you wanted something. And it was pretty obvious what Carlotta wanted. Rhiannon was well aware that she looked pretty badass; it wasn't just the studded leather armor and the two swords, projecting a 'don't fuck with me' air was part of her job and she was good at it. Not as good as Sasha Banks, of course, nobody could project attitude like The Boss, but good enough. And she'd been projecting like mad ever since she came downstairs and saw the fight going on. It wasn't surprising that the market trader woman saw her as the answer to her problem. Although it was surprising that Carlotta hadn't turned to the tough chick who'd just won the fist-fight.

The reason became clear after Carlotta revealed the identity of her harasser. His name was Mikael and he was the resident bard at this tavern. And he had dedicated the song he was playing, a comic ditty about a braggart named Ragnar the Red, to 'my friend Uthgerd the Unbroken, who has once again confirmed her position as undisputed fist-fighting champion of Whiterun'. Obviously Carlotta wasn't going to ask a friend of Mikael's to intimidate him into leaving her alone.

Now Rhiannon had to ask herself if she was going to do it. She didn't want to get conned into beating someone up without good cause and she didn't know either of the two parties outside this one conversation. What made up her mind was the little girl, Mila; she was a polite, well-behaved, child, obviously well brought up, and Carlotta's statement that she had no time for men because her daughter was her main priority rang true.

"I'll… have a word with him," Rhiannon said, "and see if I can make him see reason."

"If you would, I would be grateful," Carlotta said, "but I can't afford to pay you much."

"Don't worry about it," Rhiannon said. "If you can give me a little… advice about where to buy some things, that will be payment enough." What she wanted to know was, primarily, what women in this world used as sanitary protection; it wasn't an urgent matter, as her last period had finished just a week ago, but she wanted to be ready. She couldn't guarantee that Jenassa would be able to advise her; Rhiannon had read at least one 'Lord of the Rings' fanfic in which it was specified that Elven women didn't menstruate and the author's rationale for that had made perfect sense in context. And there was nothing about it at all in either Tolkien's works or the Forgotten Realms game setting.

Still chuckling inwardly at the thought of Professor Tolkien including references to periods in 'Lord of the Rings', and possibly having the slaying of the Witch-King being a result of Éowyn being powered by PMT, Rhiannon approached the bard.

"You have a request, fair lady?" Mikael asked. "A lively jig? A ballad? For a mere five septims you can hear any tune of your choice."

"Play _Skinny Love_ ," Rhiannon responded. "Either the Bon Iver original, or the Birdy cover version, I'm not fussy."

Mikael's forehead creased. "I am not familiar with any song of that name," he said. "Perhaps you might like _Sweet Maiden Fair from Hadleyshire_?"

"Actually, what I'd like is for you to stop pestering Carlotta Valentia," Rhiannon said, satisfied that she had thrown him off balance. "Apologize for putting her in your book and then leave her alone until she tells you otherwise."

"What? Is that the sound of jealousy that I hear?" Mikael said. "If you want to be in my book you'll have to wait until I write a second edition. But that won't be until after I have conquered sweet Carlotta."

His choice of words made Rhiannon bristle. "Watch it, _pen-coc_ ," she said. "You don't 'conquer' women. Not if you don't want me to hurt you."

Mikael recoiled slightly but then seemed to gather his nerve. "Are you threatening me? Attack me with a sword and you will go to jail," he warned.

"I wouldn't need a weapon to hurt you," Rhiannon said. "Now see sense. Carlotta doesn't want you and you're just annoying her. And putting her in that book was out of order. Back off."

"It's none of your business," Mikael said, "and if you think you can make me, you're welcome to try. Put down your swords and put up your fists."

"You don't know what you're getting into," Rhiannon warned. "You _will_ get hurt."

"A true Nord doesn't back down," said Mikael, "and I do not fear you. It's not as if you are Uthgerd, or Aela the Huntress, or even Njada Stonearm."

Rhiannon unbuckled her sword-belt, walked back to the table where she had been sitting, and put the weapons down on her seat. All the time she was scanning her surroundings and marking where there were obstacles, potential hazards such as the fire pit, and things that she could use to gain an advantage. She returned to face the bard and raised her hands. "Ready when you are," she said.

Mikael laid down his lute on a nearby table, raised his fists, and faced Rhiannon. She took a step toward him and at once he swung a punch that appeared to strike Rhiannon on the side of the jaw. She spun around, toppled to the ground, and lay unmoving on her back.

"Hah!" Mikael exclaimed. "That was even easier than I thought."

Rhiannon grinned, raised her legs, and whirled them to generate the momentum for a spectacular Black Dragon spin-up back to her feet. "My turn!" she called, as Mikael's jaw dropped in surprise, and then she lashed her right hand around in a simple slap to his face. Hard. And then she reversed the move and caught him across the other cheek with the back of her hand.

Mikael winced and tried another punch. This time Rhiannon didn't interpose her hand between the fist and her face, as she had done the first time without anyone realizing; she caught the striking arm, turned, and threw him over her shoulder. She could have applied any one of several arm-lock submission holds but, as he was a bard, she didn't want to risk inflicting serious damage to his lute arm. Instead she released her grip and, as he rolled over and tried to get to his feet, she bent and seized him by the left foot.

She stood up straight, brought her other arm around, and applied a standing ankle lock. In the ring, where the main objective was to make a hold look good whilst avoiding real injury or serious pain, she would have used a variant that was only moderately painful. In these circumstances she applied the hold to put as much pressure on the ankle joint as possible and, to make things even more agonizing, she planted her right foot on the back of Mikael's right heel and put most of her weight down on that leg.

"I yield! I yield!" Mikael cried, after only a few seconds of futile struggle.

Rhiannon lifted her right foot from his heel and slackened off the pressure of the ankle-lock slightly. "So you'll apologize to Carlotta? And then leave her alone?"

"I will," Mikael promised. "On my honor. I will never bother her again."

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon, and she released his foot. "Now if you'd just been sensible in the first place you could have saved yourself a lot of pain."

"I know that now," Mikael said. He sat up and rubbed his foot.

Rhiannon turned away and made her way back to the table. Several people offered to buy her a drink, as she passed, but she declined all offers with a smile. She sat down, took a sip of her snowberry juice, and told Carlotta "He won't be bothering you again."

"Are you all right?" Carlotta asked. "I saw him knock you down."

"He hardly touched her," a female voice cut in, before Rhiannon could reply. Rhiannon turned her head and saw the fist-fighter, Uthgerd the Unbroken, approaching the table. "That's right, isn't it?" Uthgerd continued. "You took that punch on your hand and just made it look as if he'd felled you."

"That's right," Rhiannon admitted. "You have sharp eyes."

"Fist-fighting is my business," Uthgerd said. "And yours, if I'm not mistaken. What do you say to a little match? I have a hundred septims that says I can beat you."

Rhiannon considered the challenge. Uthgerd wasn't quite as tall as she was but looked heavier. The armor made it difficult to judge how much of it was muscle but, on the basis of the fight she'd witnessed earlier, Rhiannon could tell that the other woman was seriously strong and not slow. It would be like fighting Nia Jax without a script. And there was the armor, making kicks to the body pointless, and the steel gauntlets. Getting hit by those, when the wearer knew how to throw a punch, had the potential to do serious damage. Really, taking up the challenge would be foolish.

But she was Rhiannon the Dragon, WWE Divas Champion, and a true champion didn't back down. "You just won a hundred," she pointed out, "so you must have two hundred to bet."

Uthgerd grinned. "So I have. Two hundred, then. No weapons, no magic, no crying. We fight until one of us gives up or can't continue."

"You're on," said Rhiannon.

"Don't do it!" Carlotta hissed. "She… killed someone in a fist-fight once. That's why they threw her out of the Companions."

Uthgerd flushed. "That was an accident," she said. "They wanted me to prove my worth, so they put me up against a young whelp of a lad, hardly old enough to grow his first chin-hairs. I guess they thought a woman wasn't strong enough to hurt him. I didn't know he couldn't defend himself. I never meant for him to die. Why would I want that?"

"It happens," Rhiannon said, thinking of a couple of instances in which things had gone wrong in the ring and wrestlers had died, and then remembering the bandit woman she had killed with a wrestling move. She clenched her teeth, trying to put that incident out of her mind, and stood up. "Let's do this."

She would have preferred it if there had been more clear space for the fight but you had to work with what you had. And the obstacles might work to her advantage. She knew she could leap up onto a table from a standing start, backward if necessary, and she doubted if that applied to her opponent. She surreptitiously checked on the solidity and stability of the tables as she headed for the relatively clear area where she had fought the bard. Satisfactory. And the pillars that held up the upper floor of the inn looked like tree-trunks that had just had the bark removed and the surface sanded smooth. They seemed to be well sunk into the floor and should stand up to any impact. Excellent. She had a plan.

Uthgerd faced her and adopted a boxing stance. The fist-fighting woman was plain, to put it kindly, with a square-jawed and rather masculine face. In fact, Rhiannon thought, Uthgerd bore something of a resemblance to Clint Eastwood at around the time of _Every Which Way But Loose_. Hopefully she wasn't as good a fighter as Eastwood's character in that film; if she was, Rhiannon might be in trouble.

And after the first exchange of blows Rhiannon began to think that indeed she might be in trouble. She caught hold of Uthgerd's left arm as she threw a jab, and went for a shoulder-throw, but Uthgerd slammed a right-hand punch into her kidney region. Rhiannon gasped as pain shot through her, her grip slackened, and Uthgerd pulled her left arm free. Then Rhiannon drove her elbow back into Uthgerd's jaw simultaneously with getting punched in the back again. Rhiannon winced as they separated and moved apart; served her right, she thought, for using the same move again when Uthgerd had seen it already. Next time she needed to do something different.

Uthgerd attacked again, delivering jabs and crosses that Rhiannon blocked or parried, and then she threw another left jab that Rhiannon managed to catch. This time, however, she didn't turn for a throw. Instead she spun and Irish-Whipped Uthgerd into the support pillar. She hit with a thud that seemed to shake the whole building and bounced off. Rhiannon met her with a clothesline across the jaw and swept Uthgerd from her feet.

At once Rhiannon followed up by dropping down on top of her, only remembering at the last microsecond not to lead with an elbow to the – plate-armored – stomach, and went for an arm-lock. Uthgerd wasn't out of it, however; the armor must have absorbed much of the impact from the collision and she wasn't winded. She fought back, quite effectively, and Rhiannon had to work hard to avoid getting pinned under the heavier woman and subjected to the 'ground and pound' tactic that won a lot of MMA matches.

It was Rhiannon's superior grappling experience that saved her. She was able to wrap her legs around Uthgerd's mid-section, turn her to face the floor, and then take hold of her right wrist. Rhiannon brought her left hand around her opponent's arm, took hold of her own right wrist to form a figure-four shape, and began to exert pressure.

This was the Kimura arm-lock, named after the judoka who had used it to break the arm of Brazilian Jiu-jitsu founder Hélio Gracie, and which was one of Brock Lesnar's favorite holds. The armor did little to protect Uthgerd from the inexorable pressure. Rhiannon applied more and more force, utilizing the considerable leverage the hold granted, but Uthgerd didn't submit.

"Give up," Rhiannon urged.

"Never!" Uthgerd grunted, trying to use her left arm to push herself up, but she succeeded only in putting even more pressure on her right arm. She couldn't hold herself back from crying out in pain.

"Your arm is going to break," Rhiannon warned. "Submit. Is a two hundred do… uh, septim… bet worth a broken arm?"

"No," Uthgerd conceded. "I yield. I cannot best you."

Immediately Rhiannon released her grip. She disentangled her legs from around Uthgerd's waist and did another Black Dragon spin-up to rise to her feet. She bent down, extending a hand, and Uthgerd took it and was helped up.

"That was the best fight I've had in years," Uthgerd said. "I have never faced anyone who fought like you. You are greatly skilled."

"I've been training since I was nine," Rhiannon told her. "You're not bad yourself. I haven't had a fight like that for a long time." Because the WWE would never have allowed it. Rhiannon's back hurt where she had been punched, her arms were sore from where her blocks had contacted armor and then she'd pressed against the armor as she applied the Kimura lock, but she felt great. A real, unscripted, victory against a formidable opponent. And an opponent who was gracious in defeat.

"You are the champion of Whiterun now," Uthgerd said, "and a worthy one. If you ever need an extra blade at your back, just ask. I wouldn't mind seeing how you handle a few trolls."

So Rhiannon was a champion here. Somehow she doubted if winning a brawl in a tavern counted as being 'a champion somewhere where it would really mean something', as she had stated in her ill-judged wish, and she suspected that her being this 'Dragonborn' thing had more to do with it. Still, a title was a title, even without a belt to go with it – and the stupid pink butterfly emblem that was the current Divas Championship belt wasn't much better than no belt.

But… trolls? Were they like trolls in D&D, rubbery monsters nine feet tall and regenerating from any wound unless struck with fire or acid? If so, Rhiannon didn't want to meet one. Did they have Flame Tongue swords here?

"Share a bottle of mead with me," Uthgerd went on. "I always say, you don't know a woman until you've had a strong drink and a fistfight with her. We've had the fistfight, now have a drink."

"I'd like that," said Rhiannon, "but just the one. It's been a long day."

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English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

* _Fus_ = Force

* _Dovahkiin_ = Dragonborn

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

* _pen-coc_ = dickhead


	5. HashtagDragonborn is trending

Author's note: Rhiannon, in this chapter, mentions some of the fanfiction stories hosted at _Twisting the Hellmouth_. All three authors involved have given their permission.

 **Five: #Dragonborn is trending**

Rhiannon watched as the shadow on the sundial edged closer to noon. It wasn't a precise instrument, of course, but eventually she judged that the shadow lay exactly on the line that continued from the blade that stuck up; she couldn't remember the name except that, weirdly, it had something to do with gnomes. She clicked the crown home to restart the watch. Her initial guesstimate had been surprisingly accurate, she'd only had to alter the time by just over fifteen minutes, but now it was spot on. Assuming, that is, that the length of the day on this world was the same as it was on Earth. She'd already set the date to the 19th; the month, she had discovered, was called 'Last Seed', and she guessed that meant it was late summer.

Jenassa's eyes, that weird red that was typical of the Drow in Dungeons & Dragons and of the Dunmer here, were wide open as she stared at the watch. "I would never have believed that a mechanical timepiece could be made so small," she said. "The smallest I have seen before was taller than I am. Even the Dwemer did not possess such ingenious devices."

"The Dwemer?"

"The vanished Deep Elves," Jenassa explained. "The people under the mountain, master craftsmen, greatly skilled with all things mechanical. The Dwemer were sometimes called Dwarves, although history records that they were little if any shorter than humans."

"So why were they called Dwarves?" A thought struck Rhiannon. The people under the mountain… and the tale of Egbert Williams of Denbighshire, who had encountered a group of bearded fairy-folk, almost as tall as men, but had said they could be called nothing but dwarfs. "Did these… Dwemer have beards?"

"They did, as far as we can tell from statues and carvings left behind," Jenassa confirmed. "Why do you ask?"

"It's a long story," Rhiannon said, "too long to go into now, but it explains to me why they call them Dwarves." She strapped her watch back on her wrist. It was a Citizen Eco-Drive Titanium, tough and powered by light, and it should keep going for quite a few years. She thought she could remember the way to find north with your watch, at least in the daytime, and so she had something that would serve as a compass. "I've bought most of the things I need, and arranged for my clothes to be laundered, so I think we can eat now. After that we'll set off for Riverwood."

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"…and Vincent McMahon, CEO of the WWE, has announced that he is offering a reward of fifty thousand dollars for information leading to the safe return of Rhiannon, real name Cerys Morgan, who has been missing since Monday. She was last seen on her way back to her hotel room, after a training run, on Monday morning. All of her belongings were left behind, even her identification and credit cards, and so far police have discovered no trace of her or any clues to her whereabouts. It has to be assumed that she was abducted…"

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"Close the door," Delphine said.

Rhiannon obeyed. "I take it you want to talk in private," she said. "I remember you saying that you didn't want what you do in your secret identity to be public knowledge."

"Secret identity? Yes, I think I understand what you mean," Delphine said. She glanced at Jenassa. "I'm putting my life in your hands here… and in those of your companion. Do you vouch for her?"

"You recommended her to me," Rhiannon said, "and I'm really glad you did. I trust her with my life."

Jenassa gave one of her rare smiles. "I have sworn my swords to Rhiannon's service and I do not break my word," she said. "We are two of a kind, Rhiannon and I, and I am well content. If it is you that I have to thank for her choosing me then I am in your debt. Whatever secrets you have, sera, will be safe with me."

Delphine nodded. "I don't trust easily," she said, "but I believe I can trust both of you." She opened a wardrobe that stood against a wall. Rhiannon immediately thought of Narnia but there were no racks of fur coats inside. The wardrobe was empty, the open door revealing just a blank back panel, and then Delphine operated a concealed lever and the panel slid aside. Beyond it was a passage with stairs leading down. "Follow me," Delphine said, and led the way down the stairs.

The stairway led, not to a lamp-post in Narnia, but to an underground room. It was too dark to make much out, at first, but then Delphine went around the room and lit the lamps. The room turned out to be large, as big as the inn's common room overhead, and well equipped. A table occupied the center of the room and around the walls were cupboards, chests, weapon racks, two of the ornate workbenches used for alchemy and enchanting, and even training dummies.

"Quite a hide-out you've got here," Rhiannon said. "It's… the Batcave!"

"The what?"

"In my world," Rhiannon explained, "there are tales of a hero who fights… bandits… at night. During the day he's a rich businessman but at night he puts on a costume that looks like a bat, because bats are scary and it hides his face, and he goes out into the streets of Gotham City. That way his enemies don't know who he is so they can't attack him when he's off guard. A secret identity. He has a cave under his mansion where he keeps all his weapons and costumes and stuff. You're… Batman. Like I said in the barrow, 'by day, a mild-mannered innkeeper. By night… she fights crime'."

"Crime is not my concern," Delphine said, "but I see the parallel."

Rhiannon spotted something in one of the weapon racks. "Ooh, a katana, is it?" she exclaimed. "May I?"

"Well, you handle a sword well enough that you're unlikely to injure yourself," Delphine said, "so, yes, go ahead and try a few passes."

Rhiannon took the sword and, handling it with respect, ran through the only iaido kata that she knew. Then she replaced the sword in the rack. "I've had very little training with the katana," she admitted. "I did one weekend course on iaido but I've done four weekend courses, and one full week, learning European sword-fighting. Uh, that's fighting with swords like the ones I'm wearing," she added, as a puzzled frown on Delphine's face reminded her that the term 'European' might be meaningless here.

"I could train you," Delphine said, "but it would take time and probably it's best for you to stick to what you know." She tilted her head to one side, stared at Rhiannon for a moment, and then straightened her head and smiled. "For someone with limited experience, and not a great deal of training, you are very good indeed."

Something of a back-handed compliment, Rhiannon thought, but probably accurate. "Thanks," she said, and then moved on to more important business. "Here's the map, and the books, that Farengar sent for you," she said, putting the items down on Delphine's table. "What's the big secret about them?"

"It's the fact that I have a particular interest in dragons that I want to keep quiet," Delphine said. She glanced at the map, ignored the books for the moment, and read the letter that Farengar had included with the other items. "Hmm. That fits with what I'd guessed." She set the letter down and stared at Rhiannon again. "Now to my other guesses… about you. What happened yesterday? I've heard rumors that a dragon attacked Whiterun and was killed… by a stranger whose description fits you."

"That's… not quite right," Rhiannon said. "There was a dragon but it was at the Western Watchtower, not the actual city. And I helped fight it but I wouldn't say I killed it. We all did it together. Me, Jenassa, Irileth, and a bunch of guards."

"Rhiannon is too modest," Jenassa put in. "She deserves more credit than any of us for the dragon's death. She leapt upon its back and smote it mightily. It was her daring that gave myself, and my kinswoman, the chance to strike it effectively. If not for her… I do not know if we could have prevailed."

"Was it the same dragon that attacked Helgen?" Delphine asked.

Rhiannon shook her head. "No. The Helgen one was black and this one was sort of grey-green. And quite a bit smaller than the one at Helgen, it was."

Delphine pursed her lips. "I feared as much," she said. "Not just a dragon, but dragons. There will be more dragon attacks."

"Don't tell me," Rhiannon said, "I'll have to fight them, is it? I'm the 'one girl in all the world, the Chosen One. She alone will wield the strength and the skill to fight the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. To stop the spread of their evil and the swell of their numbers. She is the Slayer' – or, in my case, the Dragonborn."

Delphine's eyes narrowed. "That sounds like a prophecy, but one unfamiliar to me," she said. "Where did you hear it?"

"On Sky One, and the complete DVD box set of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ ," Rhiannon said. "It's from a… work of entertainment in my world, about a teenage girl, called Buffy, who finds out that she has a mystical destiny as a Vampire Slayer. It's just a story but what's happening to me sounds a lot like it. Except with dragons instead of vampires." She pointed a finger at Delphine. "And don't try to tell me otherwise. You called me 'Dragonborn' yourself, before it was trendy, when I saw that glowing word thing on the wall in the barrow."

"I only understood about half of that," Delphine said. "Are you saying that others have named you 'Dragonborn'?"

"The guardsmen at the Western Watchtower started it," Rhiannon related, "and then there was this cowing great shout of 'Dovahkiin!' and the Jarl said it meant that I am the Dragonborn. He told me I have to go to High Hrothgar to see the Greybeards. I'm on my way there now. I was just stopping off here to give you the things from Farengar… but you know more than you've told me, don't you? A particular interest in dragons, you said."

"I don't know all that much," Delphine said. "I have some ideas and I'm hoping that Farengar's research will shed some light upon them. I'll tell you what I do know… but first there are a few things about you I would like to clear up."

"I've already told you I'm from a different world," Rhiannon said, "and about that stupid wish that I made. What else do you want to know?"

"Camilla Valerius has been talking about you," Delphine said. "She says you had a painting on your back. A big picture of a dragon."

"Painting? A tattoo, it is," Rhiannon said. "What would be the point of a painting? It would wear off before long. Don't they have tattoos here?"

"Tattoos? Where ink is put under the skin with needles? I've heard of them," Delphine said, "but they're not common. The only people I'm aware of who use them are the Forsworn of the Reach."

"The Whiterun guards said something about the Forsworn," Rhiannon said, and she couldn't resist throwing in a quote from _Zulu_ that seemed to fit with what the guards had said. "Bunch of savages, isn't it?"

"That's a fair description," Delphine said. "They hate the Nords, who they say stole their lands, and attack them whenever they get the chance. Raids, ambushes, murders… being linked with them, in the eyes of the Nords, would make you very unpopular."

"And did the Nords steal their lands?" Rhiannon asked.

"I suppose they did," Delphine admitted, "but it was hundreds of years ago. You would think the Reachmen would have accepted it by now. They'll never get the Reach back. They tried, twenty-seven years ago while the Empire was busy fighting the Aldmeri Dominion, and managed to capture Markarth for a while, but as soon as the Great War ended Ulfric Stormcloak and his men recaptured Markarth and drove them into the hills. Theirs is a lost cause but they won't admit it."

As a proud Welshwoman Rhiannon's sympathies were immediately with the Forsworn. She'd been brought up on tales of Dafydd ap Llywelyn and Owain Glyndŵr and, although she didn't really want Wales to become totally independent, she always voted Plaid Cymru. Delphine, however, sounded as if she was opposed to the Forsworn and Rhiannon decided to keep her mouth shut on the issue until she knew more of the background.

Delphine returned to her original topic. "So, why do you have a… tattoo… of a dragon on your back?"

"It's the national emblem of my country, Wales," Rhiannon explained. "In the kind of fighting I do, back in my world, we're expected to look… eye-catching, and we fight wearing clothes that don't cover much more than the underwear women wear here. I had the tattoo done so that I'd stand out from the crowd and show that I'm proud of my country at the same time."

"I suppose that makes sense," Delphine said, "but it might draw the wrong kind of attention, here, if there are more dragon attacks. It's made Camilla wary of you even after you helped her out by recovering that golden claw. And something else that intrigued her about you is that, according to her, you have no hair on your body at all. She wondered if you might be part Altmer, or even an Altmer disguised as a human."

"What's an Altmer?" Rhiannon asked. "Wait on, if a Dunmer is a Dark Elf, an Altmer would be some other kind of Elf, is it?"

"High Elf," Delphine confirmed. "Some of them are perfectly nice people, who just want to get on with their lives, but their rulers… the Great War was fought when the Aldmeri Dominion invaded, trying to wipe out the Empire, and they nearly succeeded. I was young then, maybe even younger than you are now, but… I lost all my comrades. Every one of them was hunted down and killed by the Thalmor. They'd kill me now, if they found me."

"That explains the secret identity," said Rhiannon. "As for the hair… I shave. We wore skimpy costumes, like I said, and tufts of hair sticking out wouldn't look good." She pursed her lips. "I suppose I'll have to let it grow out now, or perhaps just trim."

"I thought there'd be a simple explanation," said Delphine. "You don't look anything like a High Elf, or any other kind of elf, and if you had any links with the Thalmor you would have acted completely differently in Bleak Falls Barrow. Unless you're the world's best actress."

"I am an actress," Rhiannon said, "but nowhere near the world's best. If I was I would have been successful enough never to have thought of making that stupid wish. I'd have stayed where I was."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"I can't believe she'd have run away," Becky Lynch said. She ran her fingers through her mane of flame-red hair, sweeping it back from her face, as she spoke to the TV interviewer. "I know she was thinking of not renewing her contract when it expires, and going back to the UK, but she isn't a quitter. And she'd have taken her things with her. I don't think she even took any of her clothes. But it's hard to see her being kidnapped either. She's a really dangerous fighter. It would've had to be at gunpoint."

She stared straight at the camera. "But if she did run away… Cerys, if you're out there and you see this… come back. We all miss you."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

They left the ruins of Helgen at five in the morning by Rhiannon's watch. The sky was just beginning to grow light and there was a bitter chill in the air.

"I hate that place," Rhiannon said, as they went out of the southern gate. "It might have made a good place to camp but being in the place where so many people died creeped me out. I don't want to ever come back here again."

"I suspect that bandits will occupy the ruins before long," Jenassa said. "Once word spreads that Helgen is deserted bandits will flock here, first to loot the place, and then to use it as a base from which to prey upon travelers."

"Well, I hope we don't meet any bandits on this trip," Rhiannon said.

"I thought about becoming a bandit," Jenassa remarked, "but I decided I preferred clean clothes and fresh mead."

"I'm quite keen on clean clothes myself," Rhiannon said, "but not so much on mead. What I wouldn't give for a nice cup of tea…" She sighed. "I wish there was some way I could let the people back home know that I'm safe – well, for a given value of safe. Especially my parents. They must be worried sick."

"Did you leave a lover behind, sera?" Jenassa asked.

Rhiannon shook her head. "I decided not to get involved with anyone while I was in America," she said. "It was simpler. Also the only men I fancied were all involved with other girls." She noticed a signpost beside the road. "I think I'll check that sign out," she said, "just to make sure we're on the right road."

"I am sure we are, sera," Jenassa said. "The road to the right, as we left Helgen, leads to Falkreath. I have traveled that way before. This has to be the Ivarstead road."

Rhiannon looked at the signpost and saw an arrow pointing back the way they had come, labelled 'Helgen', and two pointing ahead labelled 'Riften' and 'Ivarstead'. And, in the woods beyond the sign, she saw a horse. She stepped closer, going off the edge of the road, and could just make out the top of a tent.

"Uh-oh," she said. "I think we might have just stumbled upon a bandit camp."

Jenassa nocked an arrow to the string of her new bow, which was made of some lightweight metal unfamiliar to Rhiannon, and scanned the surrounding area. "If so, and should they attack us, we shall make them regret it," she said.

"Hold, travelers!" a voice called. "Come no closer!"

"Not bandits, then," said Jenassa. "Soldiers, I think. We had best move away."

"Wait on," Rhiannon said, "I know that voice." She stepped a little further forward. "Ralof? Is that you?"

"Who… Rhiannon!" Ralof called back. "I did not recognize you with your clothes on."

"What…" another voice began, but Rhiannon didn't hear the rest of what it said because she had burst out laughing. All she was able to make out was that the second voice was female.

"We thought this was a bandit camp," Rhiannon called, once she'd managed to control her laughter. "Good to see you're all right, Ralof."

"And it is good to see that you too are all right, Rhiannon," Ralof replied. By now Rhiannon was able to see the Stormcloak warrior, partially concealed behind a ridge, and he moved more clearly into view as she spoke.

"I thought you said you were going to… Windhelm, is it?" Rhiannon said. "I didn't expect to meet you here."

"We met Jarl Ulfric on the road," Ralof explained, "and he ordered us to make camp here, and to keep Helgen under observation, to see if the Imperials reoccupied it. Shortly afterwards Thorygg Sun-Killer arrived with reinforcements, and supplies, and took command. Jarl Ulfric will be sending a relief from Windhelm before long and then I will return there."

A new male voice spoke up. "Who is this, Ralof?" the newcomer demanded. His voice was deep and had the same Scandinavian accent as Ralof and most of the inhabitants of Whiterun.

"She is Rhiannon, Thorygg," Ralof replied, "who escaped Helgen with us, as I have recounted."

"Indeed? Then I would like to speak with her," said Thorygg. He emerged into the open and approached. Ralof followed behind him.

Rhiannon opened her eyes wide and had to consciously check to make sure that she wasn't licking her lips. Thorygg was _seriously_ good-looking. Tall, as muscular as any of the WWE wrestlers, ruggedly handsome of face, and with long blond hair that was braided at the temples in a style that reminded her of Orlando Bloom playing Legolas. He was wearing a style of leather armor that she hadn't seen before, which looked as if it would be flexible and easy to move in, and which left his impressive biceps uncovered. A bearskin cape hung at his back, with the front legs of the skin draped over his shoulders, fastened to the armor by paws that still had the claws attached. All very wild, barbaric, and – to Rhiannon at least – sexy.

After five minutes of him speaking, trying to persuade her to join the Stormcloak rebellion, she changed her mind about his appeal. He spoke with undoubted passion, certain that the cause of the rebellion was just, but Rhiannon wasn't convinced. It sounded as if the root of the rebellion was religion and that meant that it could get really nasty; she'd read the 'Ring of Fire' books, or at least those of them not written by Virginia DeMarce, and was well aware that the Thirty Years' War had killed a third of the Seventeenth-Century population of Germany. And she was sure that the Empire's side would be able to come up with just as good arguments to support their side of the dispute. Also some of what Thorygg was saying sounded suspiciously racist and the contemptuous expression on his face when his gaze fell on Jenassa tended to confirm that impression.

"Sorry, but I'm not going to get involved," Rhiannon told him. "I'm working for the Jarl of Whiterun now," which was more or less true, "and he's neutral in the war. That makes me neutral too."

"You are in the service of Jarl Balgruuf?" Thorygg's very blond eyebrows climbed. "Then why are you here?"

"He's sent me on an errand to High Hrothgar," Rhiannon answered.

"High Hrothgar? The Greybeards?" Thorygg's forehead creased and then his mouth dropped open. "I heard the shout of _Dovahkiin_. Are you… the Dragonborn?"

"Uh, so I've been told," Rhiannon admitted.

"Then I will not delay you further," said Thorygg. "May Talos watch over you… and may you see the justice of our cause and join Ulfric Stormcloak in throwing off the yoke of the corrupt Empire."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

THE PROMOTION THAT CRIED WOLF?

There have been so many contrived storylines involving fake injuries, disappearances, and even phony deaths in the wrestling entertainment business that one's first reaction, on hearing the announcement that WWE Divas Champion Rhiannon has gone missing, is to assume that it's just another angle. This time, however, it appears to be genuine.

The announcement was made without any of the usual theatrics, Stephanie McMahon-Helmsley speaking entirely out of character, and the divas themselves have been breaking kayfabe all over the place. Becky Lynch seemed to be on the verge of tears when she talked about her missing real-life friend. And all of them, consistently, are referring to her by her real name of Cerys rather than using the ring-name Rhiannon.

The police appear to be baffled. There was no sign of a struggle, according to the official press release, and they're treating it as a Missing Persons case rather than a kidnapping. It's an open secret in the business that Rhiannon wasn't as happy in the main roster as she had been in NXT, and was considering going back to the UK, along with Wade Barrett, when her contract expires next summer, but no-one thinks she would just walk out; especially as reports say that all her belongings were left behind, even her phone. And surely she would have hung on at least until after WrestleMania 32.

With no explanation that makes sense forthcoming, so far, the whole affair seems to be shaping up to be the most mysterious disappearance of a Welsh celebrity since Richey Edwards of the Manic Street Preachers vanished in 1995. Let's hope that this one is resolved much quicker and with a happier outcome.

ThatCulture: WWE News

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Back where I came from I used to go for an eight-mile run every morning," Rhiannon told Jenassa, "to keep myself in fighting trim. I have a feeling that I won't need to do that here."

"I would occupy myself with weapons practice, at times when I had no patron," Jenassa said, "or spend time chopping wood for the fires of the inns and businesses. That had the advantage of being paid work as well as keeping my arms strong."

"There's clever, killing two birds with one stone," said Rhiannon, "but I'd probably get blisters." She looked up at the forbidding bulk of the mountain. "And now we have to climb seven thousand steps. Joy."

"I do not feel joy at the prospect, sera," Jenassa said.

"I was being sarcastic," Rhiannon said. She stepped down from the inn's porch and set off along the path, Jenassa close behind, and walked toward the bridge that separated the small town of Ivarstead from the winding path up the mountain. Two men were leaning against the walls of the bridge, in the middle of a conversation, but they broke off as Rhiannon and Jenassa approached.

"Excuse me, ladies," one of them called. "Are you going on the pilgrimage up the mountain?" He was a man of about forty, Rhiannon guessed, with hair cropped almost down to the skull and a neatly trimmed beard. His nose was large and the overall effect was to make him look extremely like Triple H; almost a twin, in fact, apart from being four inches shorter than Triple H and lighter by some eighty pounds of muscle.

"We're going to High Hrothgar, yes," Rhiannon confirmed, trying to stop herself from staring.

"All the way up to the monastery? In that case, I would ask a favor of you," said the scaled-down Triple H. "I have supplies to deliver to the Greybeards but I don't feel up to making the climb. My legs aren't what they were ten years ago. If you are going up anyway perhaps you could take the supplies with you? I'd pay you, of course, although I'm afraid I can't really offer all that much."

"That's not a problem," Rhiannon said. Her first impulse was to decline any offer of payment but she wasn't sure how that would be taken. "A few septims is fine. What sort of supplies?"

"Mostly food supplies like dried fish and salted meats; you know, things that keep fresh for a long time," the man answered. "The Greybeards tend not to get out much, if you catch my meaning." He bent down and picked up a bulging sack. "It's very kind of you to help. Here is the bag of supplies. At the top of the steps, just outside the monastery, you'll see the offering chest. Just leave it in there and you're done. My name's Klimmek, by the way."

"I am Rhiannon, and this is Jenassa." Rhiannon hoisted the bag up to her shoulder.

"My thanks to both of you," Klimmek said. "Watch out for wolves when you're on the mountain. They don't often attack pilgrims but when they do…" he pulled back his left sleeve and revealed two long scars on his forearm, "it can get nasty. But you look like you shouldn't have a problem."

"We can deal with wolves," Rhiannon said. She'd managed before, after all, and now she had Jenassa as back-up instead of the seriously injured Hadvar.

"I have heard rumors that some of the pilgrims have seen a frost troll on the upper slopes," Klimmek went on. "I hope they're wrong but I can't rule it out. In all honesty that's another reason why I'm reluctant to make the journey myself. If you decide to call off your pilgrimage, or only go as far as the fourth tablet like the others I've spoken to, I'll understand."

A troll. Rhiannon hadn't managed to acquire a flaming weapon – Adrianne Avenicci's smithy had one in stock, but the price was beyond Rhiannon's current means – and a few questions to the local warriors had confirmed that, yes, trolls did regenerate from wounds not inflicted by fire. Not to the same extent as the trolls in D&D, they could be killed by normal weapons, but it took a lot of damage to put them down. She cast a quick glance at Jenassa, who seemed as calmly confident as ever, and gathered her courage.

"The troll will not deter us," she said. "We're going. Not snow, nor heat, nor gloom of night, shall stay us from our appointed rounds and trolls won't either." She added, under her breath, "But don't ask me about Mrs. Cake."

"Aptly phrased, worthy of a bard," said Klimmek, "but – appointed rounds? That sounds like something a courier would say. You're not a courier, are you? If you are, then I will of course pay you at the rate laid down by the guild."

"No, I'm not a courier," Rhiannon said. "It's the motto of a… courier service in a country where I used to live."

"Well, thanks again," Klimmek said. "Watch your footing up there. In these conditions the steps can be treacherous."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

" _Kung Fu Panda!_ " Rhiannon exclaimed. "I knew this reminded me of something. I'm the Dragon Warrior, climbing up a very long stone staircase, going to a monastery half-way up a high mountain to be trained. Just like Po in _Kung Fu Panda_ except that I'm not fat, and I'm not a panda, and I already know Kung Fu."

Jenassa stopped and stared at her. "I understood none of that, sera," she said.

"It's from a story in my world," Rhiannon explained. "About a panda – that's an animal very like a bear, except that it's black and white, not ferocious, and only eats plants – who is fat, and lazy, but who wants to be a master of Kung Fu – that's a style of unarmed combat – and who eventually achieves his ambition and becomes the legendary Dragon Warrior."

"You see parallels between this story and your own situation?"

"Some, yes," Rhiannon said. "It's not the only story that's relevant, though. We have a lot of stories in my world."

"Our stories are mainly about historical personages," Jenassa said. "Many of them contain a moral or a life lesson."

"Some of ours are like that," Rhiannon said. "In fact we have stories about… everything. We even have lots and lots of stories about girls from our world who are transported, by magic, into worlds that are like this one. Most of them are, frankly, dreadful but some of them are good. The 'Return-verse' stories, for instance, and the 'Courier-verse'. In that one a girl from my world ends up on another planet and supports herself there by becoming a storyteller, telling the natives our stories, and then she becomes a courier as well." She laughed out loud. "If I could get paid to tell the Courier stories here – how meta would that be?"

"I believe you would have to be accredited as a bard, by the Bards' College in Solitude, before you could be paid for storytelling," Jenassa said. "What is 'meta'?"

Rhiannon had to think hard before she could come up with a definition. "Uh, self-referential, is it?" The look on Jenassa's face implied that she was no wiser and Rhiannon gave up. "Don't worry about it," she said, and then saw something she could use to change the subject. "Oh, look you, that must be the fourth plaque up ahead. The woman sitting in front of it must be a pilgrim."

"No doubt," said Jenassa. "A warrior maid, I would guess, by the look of her."

Rhiannon sized up the woman, as they drew closer, and decided that Jenassa was correct. The pilgrim wore that nice scaled armor, without the ugly goat horns at the shoulder that decorated the armor of Hrongar of Whiterun, and a circlet like Rhiannon's at her brow. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, seemingly not bothered by the ice and snow, her eyes trained on the little shrine in front of her. The only sign she gave that she was aware of their approach was that her hand drifted, casually, closer to the hilt of her sword.

Rhiannon walked past her and looked at the shrine. It reminded her of the Chinese roadside shrines that she'd seen in a few _wuxia_ movies, or the Christian equivalents that she'd seen in TV documentaries about Poland and Greece, but instead of religious icons it held a vertically-mounted etched stone tablet. This was the fourth she'd seen as they climbed the mountain and, like the others, it told of a long-ago war between men and dragons.

 _Kyne called on Paarthurnax, who pitied Man  
Together they taught Men to use the Voice  
Then Dragon War raged, Dragon against Tongue_.

As the instalments were miles apart, and it had taken nearly three hours ascending the steep and winding path to get this far, reading the story was almost as frustrating as waiting for updates from some of the slower authors at _Twisting the Hellmouth_. And at least there she knew the characters. Who was Kyne? Who was Paarthurnax? She resolved to ask Jenassa, once they were out of earshot of this pilgrim, so that her lack of what might well be common knowledge didn't attract attention.

"If you are going further up the mountain, beware of the troll," the pilgrim woman warned. "It lurks between here and the fifth shrine. It had been my intention to climb all seven thousand steps, and complete the reading of all ten tablets to be blessed with the Voice of the Sky, but the presence of the troll forced me to change my plans."

She had one of those slightly husky, Scandinavian-accented, voices that sounded sexy to most British people. Her appearance didn't match her voice; she was thin to the point of being scrawny, and her face, although it had the classic Scandinavian high cheek-bones, was dominated by a long thin nose. Rhiannon would have put her age as late thirties, perhaps forty, but she'd been way off in her estimate of Delphine's age – she'd have said forty but what Delphine had said about the Great War meant that she had to be at least fifty – and she wouldn't want to put money on her guess about the pilgrim. She would, however, put money on the woman being an experienced fighter.

"We passed a dead… ice wolf… a little way back," Rhiannon said. "It was you that killed it, was it?"

"I did," the woman confirmed, "but a troll is a far tougher proposition. I would not want to face one alone unless I had no choice."

"We don't have a choice," Rhiannon said. "We're on a mission from…" she fought off the temptation to say 'from God', as no-one here would have heard of the Blues Brothers, "…Jarl Balgruuf. We have to go all the way."

"Talos guide you, then," said the pilgrim.

They resumed their journey along the trail. Not all the steps led upward, rather to Rhiannon's surprise, but instead followed the path of least resistance and sometimes this meant that the steps descended, in places where ravines cut across the trail, before rising again. There were several stretches where the road was level and, on one of those sections, they caught sight of the troll.

It didn't look anything like the trolls in Dungeons & Dragons. It looked a lot more like a Yeti or Bigfoot; built like an anthropoid ape, but more erect, and covered in shaggy white hair. It was lurking on top of a ledge that overhung the road, perhaps waiting to drop down on top of prey passing below, but that position silhouetted it against the sky and made it clearly visible at a distance.

"What do you think?" Rhiannon asked. "Start shooting it with arrows and change over to swords if it gets up close?"

"I suggest that you use your bow and I take up a position of concealment," Jenassa proposed, "and attack it from the rear as it passes."

Rhiannon pursed her lips. "You're a better shot than me," she pointed out, "and you have a better bow, too."

"Then it might be best if you stage the ambush," Jenassa said.

"And backstab the troll, is it?" Rhiannon said. "Right, I'll do it."

She found a place in which she could lurk, ready to spring out and attack, and readied her swords. The troll was out of her line of sight and so she watched, as Jenassa began to loose shafts, and waited. Before long she heard the thudding of heavy footsteps as the charging beast drew near, and its angry growls, and then she saw it go past.

She leapt out and thrust with both weapons. Her blades sank deep into the troll's back. It staggered, and for a brief instant she thought that she'd managed to kill it outright, but then it swung around, lashed out with an arm, and hit her across the jaw. She rode the blow, by reflex, but even so it hit her with numbing force and sent her flying. Her swords remained stuck in the troll.

Rhiannon landed in a snow-drift and lay stunned, her ears ringing, unable to move. The troll ignored her, perhaps thinking that she was dead, and resumed its charge at Jenassa. By the time Rhiannon was able to raise her head, and look that way, Jenassa was in dire straits. The troll had knocked away one of the Dunmer's swords and seized her by the shoulders and, ignoring Jenassa's attempts to stab with her remaining sword, was pulling her toward its fanged jaws.

Rhiannon began to clamber to her feet but knew she would be too late to help. But she was the Dragonborn… She opened her mouth and yelled.

"FUS!"

The wave of force from the Shout struck both troll and Jenassa. The troll was massive enough to withstand the thrust, and merely staggered a couple of steps, but Jenassa was torn from its grip and landed a few feet away. She slipped on the icy ground, lost her footing, and fell. Her sword slipped from her hand and skittered away across the snowy rocks.

Rhiannon managed to get to her feet and she fumbled at her belt for the Axe of Whiterun. She expected that the troll would turn its attention to her but it headed for Jenassa once more; perhaps it hadn't recognized the source of the invisible force that had just struck it. Jenassa was slow to rise and appeared to be dazed. Rhiannon, who wasn't in much better shape, knew that she wouldn't make it there in time to save her comrade. She tried to Shout but nothing happened; she must need to recharge. Could she throw her axe? She'd never tried, and suspected the weapon would strike flat on, or handle first, and achieve nothing. She drew back the axe to try a throw anyway…

And then, perhaps because she'd been thinking about _Twisting the Hellmouth_ only minutes before, a phrase from one of the stories there popped into her mind.

 _What would Terawatt do_?

It was obvious. The protagonist of Diane Castle's story _The Secret Return of Alex Mack_ would fire a bolt of lightning at the troll. And Rhiannon had learnt the spell to shoot electric sparks from her fingers…

She thrust out her left hand, brought the spell into her mind, and extended her fingers. At once twisting lines of scintillating energy, just like those from a Tesla coil, shot out in the direction of the troll. And hit. The troll jerked convulsively and roared in obvious pain. Its advance on Jenassa was brought to a halt. It sagged almost to its knees…

And after a mere five seconds Rhiannon's magic ran out and the electric bolts fizzled into non-existence. The troll straightened up, turned, and made straight for Rhiannon at a run. It used its long arms as forelegs, knuckling along like a charging silverback gorilla, and it was an even more intimidating sight. It had a third eye in the center of its forehead, all three eyes as red as blood, and they were firmly fixed on Rhiannon. Its massively-fanged mouth gaped wide. It reared up, raised its right arm, and lashed out at her with a huge, three-clawed, hand.

Rhiannon ducked under the strike and retaliated with her axe. Her training with an axe had been far shorter than her sword-fighting courses, and had concentrated on teaching her to look as if she was striking whilst not putting the other actor in real danger, but the troll wasn't likely to know parries and counters. Simply hitting it as hard as she could, and trying to avoid its return strikes, should work. She struck it a solid blow to a leg, the blade biting deep and its electrical shock enchantment causing additional pain, and the troll's roars became a howl. It brought an arm down like a bludgeon, she side-stepped, and the troll's blow missed. She pulled the axe free, struck again, and this time didn't quite manage to dodge the troll's retaliatory strike. It hit her across the chest, the claws just catching her arm and making a shallow gouge across her bicep, and sent her spinning away.

She recovered her balance, raised her axe again, and tried to ignore the blood streaming down her arm. The troll roared and closed in for the kill.

"Talos guide my arm!" a voice yelled. "Your kind has no place here!"

It was the pilgrim woman. She rushed to the attack and plunged her sword home into the troll's side. The beast wheeled to strike back at her and Rhiannon seized the opportunity to attack. She delivered another solid stroke with her axe, cutting into its leg as if she was felling a tree, and that leg buckled underneath it. The pilgrim stabbed again and then Jenassa returned to the fray. She had not yet recovered her own swords but she grabbed hold of the hilts of Rhiannon's swords, still embedded in the troll's back, and ripped them free.

Troll blood splattered on the snow, just as red as that dripping from Rhiannon and Jenassa, and the creature slumped down. It kept itself up only by supporting itself with its front limbs, abandoning its attempts to attack, and all three women rained more blows down upon it until it collapsed. They continued to chop at the body until the troll was pretty much dismembered and there was no possibility of it rising to attack again.

Rhiannon stood for a moment, panting, and then the pain of the wound in her arm hit her. She thought her magic reserves – or magicka, as they called it here – had recharged enough to cast a healing spell, and she was about to do so, when she noticed Jenassa sinking to her knees and rubbing her head. A gash above her eyebrow was oozing blood.

"Let me do something about that," Rhiannon said, and she cast a Healing Hands spell for the first time. She poured healing energy into Jenassa, and saw the forehead wound close, but the power ran out after only three or four seconds.

Jenassa made a sound between a grunt and a snort. "I hope you're not expecting a 'thank you'," she said.

"Well, pardon me for trying," Rhiannon said, feeling somewhat hurt.

"Forgive me, sera, that was ungracious of me," Jenassa said. "Your voice magic may have knocked me to the ground, and given me a headache, but you saved my life. I should thank you, indeed, and I do so most sincerely." Her gaze fell on Rhiannon's bleeding arm. "And you healed me before yourself. My words were churlish."

"Don't worry about it," Rhiannon said. "Ratty I am, too, when I have a headache." She tried to cast a healing spell on herself but nothing happened. "Damn, my batteries must be flat. I'd better take a potion."

"What are batteries?" Jenassa asked.

"They're things for… storing electricity, back where I come from," Rhiannon said, as she fished a healing potion from her pouch. She turned to the pilgrim woman. "Thanks for the help."

"It was remiss of me not to offer my assistance earlier," the pilgrim replied. "It occurred to me, after you had departed, that a troll would pose little threat to three together and I should have offered to accompany you. I was on my way to remedy my lack of thought when I heard the Shout. You used the _Thu'um_ , did you not?"

"Uh, yes," said Rhiannon.

"Then you are the Dragonborn," the woman said, awe evident in her voice. "I heard the Greybeards call of _Dovahkiin_ as I was on my way to Ivarstead. I hoped that it meant that a Dragonborn had been called but could scarce believe it, for none such have been known in… centuries. These are exciting times."

"A curse, that is, where I come from," Rhiannon said. "Exciting times are nice to hear about, not so good to live through."

"Indeed so," said the woman. "I am Karita. I will accompany you higher up the steps, if you will accept my company."

"Glad to have you," Rhiannon said. "I hope we don't meet any more trolls."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Bloody trolls," Paige muttered, as she read the comments in the forum. One poster was insisting that Rhiannon's disappearance was just another WWE storyline, or a publicity stunt, and Paige wasted no time in posting a vitriolic reply. "I hope Cerys' mum and dad don't read these. They must be worried sick. I know mine would be."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Damn, that's quite a sight," Jenassa remarked, as she stood at the top of the steps, outside the monastery, and gazed out over the landscape below.

Rhiannon deposited Klimmek's sack of supplies in the offering chest and turned to look at the view. "Indeed it is," she agreed. "Higher than the top of Snowdon, we are, and there's a lot of mountain up above us still." She was tempted to launch into a rendition of _Let It Go_ from _Frozen_ , which seemed very appropriate to the setting, but suppressed the impulse. Instead she walked over to the tenth, and final, shrine and joined Karita in reading the tenth etched tablet.

 _The Voice is worship  
Follow the Inner path  
Speak only in True Need_

A postscript only. The story proper had been told, although in cryptic form, on the previous nine plaques and had ended with the summoning of Tiber Septim by the Greybeards. But reading the tenth had its own reward. A barely perceptible stream of energy emanated from the tablet and entered Rhiannon and Karita.

"The Voice of the Sky," Karita said, in reverent tones. "For the next twenty-four hours no wild beast will attack us, or flee from us."

"We could have used that at the bottom," Rhiannon said.

"True," Karita said, "although trolls are not true beasts, being unnatural monsters, and I do not think the Voice of the Sky would deter them. Still, it will mean that I will not be troubled with wolves as I return to Ivarstead."

"You're not going in, then?" Rhiannon said. "The Greybeards don't have a visitor area with a café and a gift shop, is it? When I went up Snowdon I had a cup of tea and a toasted teacake before I went down again." She glanced at her watch. "And it's taken six hours to get this far. You could get up Snowdon and down again in that time, even if you didn't take the train, although, to be fair, you wouldn't have to stop to fight a troll."

Karita shook her head. "The Greybeards do not encourage visitors," she said. "Rarely is anyone admitted. The last, as far as I know, was Ulfric Stormcloak. He studied here, as a young man, or so it is said."

"That will be how he learned the Voice, the _Thu'um_ , is it?"

"That is so," said Karita, "and with the power of that ancient Nord art he will free us from the yoke of the Empire and the Thalmor. I hope that you will aid us in our noble cause, Dragonborn."

"I… think that my task is to fight the dragons," Rhiannon said. "I don't think I should get involved in a civil war." She knew that a greater percentage of the British population had died in the English Civil War than in the First World War, the American Civil War had killed more American soldiers than both World Wars put together, and a more recent horrible example was the situation in Syria. No way did she want to be part of anything like that.

"I saw a dragon, high in the sky, as I made my way to Ivarstead," Karita said. "It seemed to be circling Bonestrewn Crest."

"I might go there after the Greybeards have finished with me," Rhiannon said, "but I have to report back to the Jarl first." Jarl Balgruuf hadn't given any such instruction, in fact, and it was Delphine to whom Rhiannon would be reporting. That, however, was something Delphine didn't want made public and using the Jarl's name made a good cover story.

"Talos watch over you, Dragonborn," said Karita.

"And over you," Rhiannon said in return, and she headed for the doors of the monastery.

There was no doorbell, and knocking produced no response, and so Rhiannon opened the door and walked in. Jenassa followed three paces behind. A short passage led into a huge hall, floored with stone flags, illuminated by candles and several braziers. Some of the flagstones were set at an angle to form a large square in the middle of the floor.

At first there was no sign of any inhabitants but then a grey-robed figure descended a flight of steps and approached.

"So a Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of the age," he greeted them. He was an elderly man of distinguished appearance, with a short and neat grey beard, reminding Rhiannon very much of Sir Alec Guinness playing Obi Wan Kenobi both in appearance and in voice. At least he wasn't Master Shifu the Red Panda. Three other robed figures entered the hall and took up positions at three corners of the marked-out square.

"Uh, hello," Rhiannon said. "I'm Rhiannon, and they say I'm the Dragonborn."

"We will see if you truly have the gift," said the first Greybeard. "Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste of your Voice."

"What, Shout at you, is it? Are you sure?"

"We are trained to withstand the _Thu'um_ ," said the Greybeard. "Do not be afraid. You will not harm us."

Rhiannon took his word for it. "Use the Force, Luke", she muttered, under her breath, and then breathed in deeply and Shouted "FUS!" The Greybeard was driven back only by a single step. He had resisted it almost as well as the eight-foot troll.

"Dragonborn," said the Greybeard, sounding almost awestruck. "It is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar." He stepped forward, back to his original position, and looked Rhiannon up and down. "I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?"

"Uh, you summoned me, is it? At least Jarl Balgruuf told me that's what it meant when you called out _Dovahkiin_."

"Indeed so," said Arngeir. "We are to train you, and guide you in the Way of the Voice, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."

"Ah," said Rhiannon. "A training montage. Cue the power chords. Although in this world they'd be a cappella."

"Your words are strange to me, Dragonborn," said Arngeir, looking and sounding perplexed. "Do you wish to learn?"

"I am ready to learn, Master," Rhiannon replied, and she bowed in the style of a martial arts student to their Sensei.

"Then let us begin."

The other three Greybeards did not speak; Rhiannon learned, as the lessons progressed, that they kept silent because their voices were so powerful that they risked inflicting harm if they spoke. Only Arngeir had sufficient control to be able to carry on a normal conversation. Masters Einarth, Bori, and Wulfgar did, however, play a major part in her training.

Arngeir revealed to her that a Shout was made up, in full, of three Words of Power. With each additional word the Shout grew more powerful. The Word she knew already, 'Fus', was the first word of the Shout 'Unrelenting Force'.

Master Einarth Shouted the second word, 'Ro', at the floor and a glowing word symbol, like the one she had seen in Bleak Falls Barrow, took shape on the flagstones. Reading it gave her the basic concept but before she could use it Master Einarth had to bestow upon her the full understanding of the word; he projected this at her in the form of a mystical energy wave resembling the one that had streamed into her from the dying dragon. Unlike the dragon, however, Master Einarth did not burst into flames and crumble away.

The next step was for her to display her proficiency with the reinforced Shout. The three non-speaking Masters – Rhiannon almost got an attack of the giggles when she started to wonder if the non-speaking roles meant that they were paid less than Arngeir – took turns projecting intangible targets, rather like holograms, at which she had to Shout. It was difficult to tell for sure, as the targets had no physical bodies, but she had a feeling that the 'FUS RO' version of Unrelenting Force would be powerful enough that not even a troll would be able to shrug it off.

Next they took her outside, into a vast courtyard at the rear of the monastery, and Master Bori taught her the first word of a completely new Shout; 'Wuld', which she was told meant 'Whirlwind', and which would enable her to sprint a short distance at a headlong pace that would have left Usain Bolt trailing in her wake. Or even a cheetah; Rhiannon had no way of estimating the speed accurately but her rough guess was that the 'Whirlwind Sprint' shout propelled its user for about fifty or sixty feet at something like a hundred miles an hour.

That concluded the practical part of the lessons. Before the Greybeards could teach her any more, Arngeir told her, there was a task that she had to perform. Luckily they didn't ask her to bring them a shrubbery.

"You are now ready for your last trial," Arngeir said. "Retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his tomb in the ancient fane of Ustengrav. Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you will return."

"This tomb wouldn't be full of the Undead, draugr, is it?" Rhiannon said.

"It is possible," Arngeir admitted. "There are obstacles that must be overcome, some of which are intended to be passable only by a true Dragonborn, and the ancient Nords may well have used draugr as guardians of the tomb."

"I thought as much," said Rhiannon. "Oh, well, I don't suppose I've a choice. But if you don't mind I won't set off straight away. It's getting dark."

"You are welcome to stay the night, Dragonborn," Arngeir said. "I will put beds at the disposal of yourself and your taciturn companion. And you may dine with us, shortly, although," he smiled, "I cannot guarantee much in the way of conversation over the meal."

What conversation there was concentrated on the history and ethics of the Greybeards. As well as the four Masters she had met there was one other, the chief of the order, and his name was Paarthurnax. He lived in solitary seclusion, at the very top of the mountain, and Rhiannon would not be able to meet him until she had progressed far enough in mastery of the Voice to be able to use it to calm the ferocious winds that made the upper trail hazardous to the point of lethality.

Paarthurnax. That was the name on the fourth of the etched tablets, the one who had taught mortals to use the Voice in the first place, and that must have been hundreds, even thousands, of years ago. So either he was a god – 'strong on his mountain' like Crom – or an Elf, or… a dragon.

Rhiannon strongly suspected that the last was the case. She wasn't totally familiar with the naming conventions here, as yet, but she knew enough to tell that 'Paarthurnax' wasn't a Nord name. The Imperials seemed to have names that resembled those from Ancient Rome. She'd only met a handful of Elves, so far, but none of those she had encountered had a name anything remotely similar to that of the Greybeards' leader. But 'Paarthurnax' would fit in perfectly as a name for a dragon, at least in the D&D game-world of Faerûn, and living alone on the top of a mountain seemed in character for a dragon.

And the idea made sense. According to the Greybeards all Shouts were in the Dragon language. So who but a renegade dragon could have taught them to mankind? _Paarthurnax, who pitied Man_ , the tablet said, and that implied that Paarthurnax wasn't a member of the human race. It all seemed to fit.

"Paarthurnax is a dragon, is he?" she asked Arngeir.

The Greybeard froze part-way through taking a forkful of apple and cabbage stew to his mouth. "What makes you think that?" he asked.

"So he is a dragon," Rhiannon said, grinning, and she explained part of her logic – minus the bit about dragons in D&D – to Arngeir. "Can I meet him soon? It would be lush to talk to a real dragon who wasn't trying to kill me. I wonder what he'll think of my tattoo?"

"You seem eager to converse with Paarthurnax," Arngeir said, raising his eyebrows. "Most Nords would seek to slay any dragon, even one that does no harm, rather than look forward to a friendly meeting with one."

"I'm not a Nord," Rhiannon said. "As you may have guessed, I am not from these parts," she added, quoting John Cleese in _Silverado_. "I'm from a country called Wales and our national emblem is the Red Dragon. There are good dragons in our stories, like Idris, as well as evil ones like Smaug. I'd love to talk to a dragon."

"A pleasant change from the bloodthirsty attitude that many display," Arngeir said. "We never allowed Ulfric Stormcloak to meet Paarthurnax. By the time he had advanced far enough in his studies of the _Thu'um_ he had begun to show signs that made us suspect that it might be… unwise. You, on the other hand… When you return here with the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller we shall teach you the Shout, Clear Skies, that enables safe passage to the top of the Throat of the World where Paarthurnax lives."

"There's tidy!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "I'll go after the Horn once I've gone back to Whiterun and talked to Jarl Balgruuf."

"We would ask you not to mention Paarthurnax to the Jarl of Whiterun," Arngeir cautioned, "or, indeed, to anyone else."

"I won't," Rhiannon promised. It might be best to keep the secret from Delphine, too, she thought. The Ninja Innkeeper did seem to be somewhat obsessed with dragons, and not in a fangirl way. Probably she'd expect Rhiannon to kill Paarthurnax rather than talk to him.

Later, in bed, Rhiannon couldn't sleep. She kept thinking about her parents and what they must be going through, and about the people she had been forced to kill, and about her colleagues in the WWE. She needed something to take her mind off those things and the options open to her back on Earth, such as checking Facebook and browsing _Twisting the Hellmouth_ and the _Baen Free Library_ , weren't available. She was forced to fall back on reading actual printed books by candlelight.

Luckily the monastery did have a well-stocked library. Rhiannon found a couple of short volumes that helped her get to grips with the geography of the area, and some of the history and politics, and then she stumbled across one that she found even more interesting.

 _The 'Madmen' of the Reach_. This was an account written by a scholar who had investigated the motives of the Forsworn, including visiting a Forsworn encampment and talking with them face-to-face, and who gave what seemed to be a balanced and sympathetic portrayal of them. This book reinforced Rhiannon's initial impression that there were close parallels between the situations of the Forsworn and of the Welsh in the late 13th Century. She resolved to travel to the Reach, as soon as was practicable, and see for herself.

Before she could do that, however, she had to check in with Delphine and then go off in search of the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. If they set off down the mountain after breakfast they'd arrive in Ivarstead in the early afternoon. If they carried straight on to Riverwood it would mean they'd be in the middle of nowhere when night fell. She'd seen a cabin close to the road, in a state of disrepair and apparently abandoned, but it didn't have a door; that might mean waking up to find that they were sharing the shack with a bear. Not an enticing prospect.

If they stayed in Ivarstead for another night, and set off for Riverwood early in the morning, they might be able to make the journey in a single day if they pushed hard. If not then they'd have to camp in the ruins of Helgen again, not an attractive option, but perhaps the Stormcloaks would let her stay in their encampment overnight? It might be worth asking.

She'd have some time to kill in Ivarstead if she arranged her schedule that way, of course, and that little hamlet wasn't exactly packed with shops or sites of interest. Although there was that allegedly haunted barrow that the innkeeper had been rabbiting on about; it might be worth taking a look…

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon and Jenassa emerged from Shroud Hearth Barrow after midnight. So much for using the exploration of the barrow to kill a few hours.

On the plus side Rhiannon had acquired several hundred septims in coin, an enchanted great-sword – unfortunately it was a Cold enchantment, which she already knew, rather than the Flame property that she very much wanted – and several other saleable weapons, and a new understanding that Real Life imposed Encumbrance penalties much more rigorously than even the strictest Dungeon Master. She'd been forced to leave several bows, swords, and shields behind. Jenassa had assured her that none were particularly valuable, and they weren't as good as their existing weapons, but Rhiannon would have taken them anyway if she could.

The items that she had taken included a spell-book of Oakflesh, which she presumed was the equivalent of Barkskin in Dungeons & Dragons, and another book that had magically bestowed upon her a basic knowledge of Illusion magic. Something which, in this world, meant more than just opening up a possible career as a rival to David Copperfield.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, she'd found another Word Wall. This one bore a word for a shout called 'Kyne's Peace', which would calm wild animals and prevent them from attacking; a re-usable version of the 'Voice of the Sky' effect from the tablets on the steps up to High Hrothgar. She couldn't use the Shout, however, until she acquired another dragon soul; having to fight a dragon didn't seem a good trade-off for being able to avoid fighting wolves.

And she'd been forced to kill another human. He'd been insane, and homicidal, but still she regretted it.

Now she would snatch a few hours' sleep and then set off for Riverwood.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"I thought they might send you after the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, or something like it," Delphine said. "I'll come with you, if I may. A place that holds a relic like that might also contain dragon lore that I'd find useful and you might not know what to look for."

Rhiannon saw the frown on Jenassa's place and guessed that her Housecarl was worried about her place being usurped. "We'd be glad to have you accompany us," she said, slightly stressing the 'we' and 'us', and saw Jenassa's frown lift. She'd guessed right.

"I'm not quite ready to go yet, though," Delphine said. "I've heard a rumor of something down near Riften that I want to investigate first. Would you mind waiting a few days? A week at most."

"We could go with you," Rhiannon suggested.

"Hmm." Delphine pursed her lips. "No, that might not be a good idea. There are a couple of people I'll be talking to who might be somewhat close-mouthed in front of strangers. And Riften can be a dangerous place for those who don't have the right… contacts. No, I think it would be best if you spent the time in Whiterun. Sell the stuff you picked up in that barrow, get some sword-fighting training – there's a warrior named Amren who gives lessons, and he's said to be very good – or do some archery practice, or perhaps do a job for the Jarl. He might well want a bandit nest clearing out, or something along those lines. Come back here in, say, five or six days and I should be all ready to accompany you to Ustengrav."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"There's been a courier looking for you," Adrianne told Rhiannon. "He has a letter for you, apparently. You'll find him at the Bannered Mare, I would think, or he might have gone up to Dragonsreach to leave the letter with the Jarl."

"A letter for me, is it?" Rhiannon had no idea who could be sending her a letter. The Greybeards would just Shout. She'd parted from Delphine only three hours previously and the few other people in Riverwood that she'd met could have caught her there. Almost all the other people she knew in Skyrim were in Whiterun. Unless… Hadvar? Or his superiors in the Legion, trying to recruit her?

She concluded her business with Adrianne, selling off the surplus weapons, but found that, although she now had more than the price the smith had been asking for the flaming axe, in the intervening time Adrianne had sold the weapon to someone else. Rhiannon sighed, pocketed the cash, and then went to the Bannered Mare in search of the courier. Subconsciously she'd been expecting a young woman, perhaps because of the 'Courier' stories, but this courier wasn't Dawn Summers alias Mahaila alias Lady Arwen. It was a young man, of unremarkable appearance, who handed over the letter and departed immediately.

 _Rhiannon Dragonborn,_

 _Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Siddgeir, and I have the honor to be the Jarl of the proud and ancient city of Falkreath._

 _The fame of your exploits across Skyrim has brought you to my attention. If you are interested in becoming a Thane of Falkreath Hold, I invite you to call upon me in Falkreath at the earliest opportunity. Aside from the honor that accrues to the title, my thanes are entitled to a personal Housecarl. I also can tell you privately that a choice parcel of land in Falkreath would be available for your purchase should your services prove useful to me._

 _I look forward to meeting you in person._

 _I remain,_

 _Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath_

"Siddgeir is a young pup, a poor excuse for a Nord, indolent at best, dishonest at worst," Jarl Balgruuf said, when Rhiannon showed him the letter. "No doubt he hopes that some of the glory of the Dragonborn will rub off on him. Or he hopes to make some political capital out of having the Dragonborn as a Thane."

"So I should ignore this, is it?"

Balgruuf stroked his beard. "Not necessarily," he said. "You may be able to get him to understand at least some approximation of the concept of honor. I don't hold out much hope, but it's possible. And he has always been jealous of Whiterun's association with the Companions, as Jorrvaskr is here, and if he has heard that I have appointed the Dragonborn as a Thane that will have made him even more resentful. Accepting his offer, so that he too can claim a link with the Dragonborn, will ease that resentment and improve relations between our holds. He might even be willing to let me do something about that bandit nest, just over the border, which he is too lazy or parsimonious to deal with himself."

Rhiannon thought for a minute. She had some time to spare; she had considered going to the Reach, to see if she could meet the Forsworn, but she had no idea how long it would take to make contact on terms that wouldn't get her attacked on sight. Falkreath was closer, and Jenassa knew the way, and they should be able to go there, see the Jarl and be made a Thane, and get back to Riverwood in plenty of time to meet up with Delphine. And maybe there'd be a flaming weapon on sale in Falkreath at a price she could afford.

"I'll go to Falkreath, then," Rhiannon said. "It's too late to go today so I'll set off tomorrow. For now I'll see if Farengar will let me play with his Enchanter's workbench. And then I have to pick up my laundry."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Ri'saad has wares, if the lady has coin," the cat-person said. He was sitting cross-legged in the entrance to a tent, in the little clearing just outside the outer gate of Whiterun, as the three other members of his band busied themselves with completing the erection of the camp-site. It was obvious that he was the leader of these cat-people.

Rhiannon sat down in front of him. She remembered the phrase he had used when she had seen the cat-people before, when she had first arrived at Whiterun, and used it as a greeting now. "May your road lead you to warm sands," she said. "Will you tell me about your people?"

Ri'saad bowed his head slightly. "The lady is courteous," he said. "The Khajiit hail from a distant land called Elsweyr, bordered on the north by Cyrodiil, and on the south by the glistening blue waters of the sea. Elsweyr is an arid land of deserts and rocky canyons, where the sun shines warmly, always. There are cities so ancient, the sands have swallowed them whole. But now I will speak of this no more, for this Khajiit misses his home greatly."

"You are traders, is it?"

"We travel this land offering our wares for sale, and buying goods that we can sell," Ri'saad confirmed. "This caravan goes between Whiterun and Markarth. Perhaps you have encountered Ma'dran or Akhari? Both are sworn to me, and both have worthy goods to offer."

"I've only been in Skyrim a few days," Rhiannon told him, "and you're the first of your people I have seen." She would have liked to spend more time talking, as she found these… Khajiit… fascinating and extremely cute, but she had to press on to Falkreath. "Do you have any weapons for sale with a fire enchantment?"

"This one has an iron mace that bears such a charm," Ri'saad said. "It is a poor piece, no doubt used as a practice piece by a novice enchanter, and the enchantment is not strong. Worth perhaps five hundred septims at most. To you, courteous lady… three hundred and twenty-five."

"I'll take it," Rhiannon said. She made no attempt to bargain him down further; she would have paid the five hundred, if necessary, and she realized that she'd just saved herself a hundred and seventy-five septims simply by being polite and friendly. A useful lesson.

An iron mace wasn't much use to her in itself, as she'd never had any lessons in the use of that kind of weapon, but she could use it to learn the Fire enchantment and apply it to one of her swords. She considered going back into Whiterun, and up to Dragonsreach to use Farengar's workbench, but that would mean a considerable delay. Better to stop off in Riverwood, call at the Sleeping Giant inn, and use the enchanting equipment in Delphine's secret Batcave. She wouldn't be there now, of course, but she'd told Orgnar to allow Rhiannon access. Yes, that was a much better idea.

"Was there anything else, or is our transaction complete?" Ri'saad asked.

"I'll need a filled Soul Gem," Rhiannon said. The way they enchanted items in this world, using the trapped life energy of dying creatures, seemed a little creepy to her but she would just have to live with it. And she wasn't going to use the souls of sentient beings, even if they did produce more powerful results, but would stick to those of animals and monsters. "And… do you sell tea leaves?"


	6. Hungry Like the Wolf

**Six: Hungry Like the Wolf**

The Jarl of Falkreath was a young man, as Jarl Balgruuf had said; probably around the same age as Rhiannon, who had turned twenty-seven only a month ago. His hair was dark and cut short, unusually for a Nord, and he was clean-shaven. He wore a tunic of fine material embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with fur, a jade and emerald circlet adorned his brow, and the belt that encircled his waist was secured with a large gold buckle.

Handsome, and well-dressed, but Rhiannon didn't find him in the least attractive. And, in fact, after the first minute of conversation she felt more like giving him an elbow strike to the face.

"So you are the famous Dragonborn," Siddgeir said. "I must confess I did not expect the warrior of legend to be such an… attractive young lady."

Rhiannon ignored the compliment. "You wrote inviting me to come," she said, "and mentioned appointing me as a Thane."

"Ah, yes," said Siddgeir. "There is room in my court for another Thane, certainly. At present I have only my uncle Dengeir, who was Jarl before me, but he is too old and set in his ways to be much use. And not very… decorative, frankly. Someone like you could liven this dreary place up significantly. But I can't just appoint a newcomer over the heads of the residents without observing certain traditions. You must perform a task for me, for a start, and I have a couple of things in mind. Then there is the custom that a Thane should be known and respected throughout the Hold. Doing a few favors for the rabble would satisfy that requirement. There's always some simple thing that they don't have enough gumption to do for themselves."

"Like killing rats in the cellar of the inn, is it?" Rhiannon said, thinking of the tasks her gaming group's DM had given the characters when they started out, getting them a few gold pieces whilst introducing them to the combat system.

"I don't believe there are any rats in Dead Man's Drink," Siddgeir said, "but no doubt there will be something similarly mindless some of the locals will want you to do. Three such things should do, I think. Don't worry, I'll put the most liberal interpretation possible on whatever you come up with. You could even do a favor for the condemned man in the cells and I would count that."

"Condemned man?"

"A murderer, who killed a little girl," the Jarl said. "We would have executed him already if the headsman hadn't gotten himself killed at Helgen. You wouldn't care to do that duty yourself, would you?"

Rhiannon shuddered. The headsman to which he referred must be the one who came within seconds of cutting off her own head. "No," she said. "I don't do that."

"A pity," said Siddgeir, "but I can understand that it's not to everyone's taste. I wouldn't want to do it myself. Such a horribly messy business, I've always thought. Anyway, the murderer keeps making a nuisance of himself begging the guards to take some stolen item back to its rightful owner. I don't know the details, and I can't spare any of the guards to go wandering off on anything so unimportant, but you might want to look into it."

"I'll see," Rhiannon said.

"As for my own task," Siddgeir went on, "I've a couple of things in mind. There's an iron mine to the east, near the border with Whiterun Hold, and a band of outlaws have moved in and taken it over. Jarl Balgruuf keeps pestering me about them, complaining that they're raiding into his Hold, and I've decided that the little they've been paying me in tribute is no longer worth the bother. It's time they were cleared out. Kill their leader for me. The rest should soon scatter. Or you could kill them all, which would be neater."

Rhiannon felt her eyes widening and fought to keep her face impassive. The Jarl had just let slip that he'd been tolerating the bandits in exchange for tribute. That explained Balgruuf's assessment of Siddgeir as 'indolent at best, dishonest at worst'. Getting rid of the bandits did seem like a worthy endeavor, and it would please Balgruuf, but she wasn't keen on the idea of actively seeking out people, even bandits, and killing them.

"What was the other thing?" Rhiannon asked.

"The taxes from Granite Hill are overdue," Siddgeir said. "It's a miserable little hamlet, hardly more than a few farms and an inn, but their coin is useful and normally they've been quite conscientious about paying on time. You could go there and investigate for me. My steward could point it out for you on the map."

Rhiannon didn't see herself as a tax collector, either, but it seemed a better option than being a bounty hunter. "I'll look into it," she agreed. "I'll see what the townsfolk want doing, first, and have a word with that… murderer. If he wants his stolen thing taken back to that Granite Hill place, I could kill two birds with one stone."

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The WWE management has announced that the standard thirty-day title defense rule will be applied in the case of Rhiannon. The Divas Championship title will be up for grabs as of January 14 2016. They will be running an elimination tournament, to decide the new champion, in the same way as they did for the WWE World Championship following the injury to Seth Rollins at the Dublin Live Event show in November.

The police investigation into Rhiannon's disappearance continues but, so far, without result.

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"Come to gawk at the monster?"

He didn't look like much of a monster. A rather scrawny individual, in fact, clad only in ragged trousers. He had a straggly beard that covered most of his cheeks and his hair grew down his forehead in a pronounced widow's peak. His cell was a stone chamber, open at the top to admit light, but with walls much too high to climb. The open roof must have let in rain-water, too, as the cell floor was a foot deep in water.

"I hear you killed a little girl," Rhiannon said.

"Believe me, I didn't want to," said the murderer, whose name, Rhiannon had been told, was Sinding. "I just… lost control. It's all on account of this blasted ring."

"What ring?" Rhiannon would have expected any jewelry to have been taken from the prisoner, along with his clothes, when he was arrested and thrown in jail.

"The Ring of Hircine," Sinding said. "I was told it could control my transformations. Perhaps it used to, but no more."

Rhiannon listened, with horror, as Sinding explained that he was a werewolf. He had heard of an enchanted ring that would give him greater control over his transformations, had sought it out, and stolen it. In so doing he had angered the Daedric Prince of the Hunt, Hircine, who had cursed the ring so that it caused him to transform at random, at any time of the day or night, into a ravening beast.

Rhiannon had come across passing references to the Daedric Princes in the reading she had done in Whiterun and at High Hrothgar. They were regarded as demons, although apparently a couple of them were benevolent, and dealing with them was, to say the least, frowned upon. Hircine, she gathered from the books and from what Sinding told her, was the equivalent of Herne the Hunter in British mythology.

"I want to beg Hircine's forgiveness," Sinding said, "so that I can enter his afterlife. There is a certain beast, a White Stag, that is his symbol. If someone would take the ring, and hunt the White Stag, when it is slain Hircine will appear and grant the hunter a boon. Getting him to take back the ring would free me from his curse."

A White Stag? The ending of _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe_ immediately came to Rhiannon's mind. The four Pevensie children, as the grown-up Kings and Queens of Narnia, had gone to hunt the wish-granting White Stag and had been led to the lamp-post and thus back to Earth. Maybe this White Stag could get Rhiannon back home…?

"So where would I find the White Stag?" she asked.

"It waits in the woods just east of the town," Sinding said. "Just to add to my torment, knowing that it is so close, and I am stuck in here. Take the ring, hunt the Stag, and return the ring to Hircine so that I can find peace."

Rhiannon considered her options. She seemed to have acquired responsibilities here, in her capacity as the Dragonborn, with a duty to fight dragons. If she gave it up, and went back to Earth, she'd be deserting Jenassa, letting down Delphine and Jarl Balgruuf, and abandoning the population of Skyrim to their fate. But maybe there could be another Dragonborn, and her parents had to take priority over everything else. If there was a chance she could find her way back to Earth she had to take it.

"I'll do it," she said. "Give me the ring." She took out one of the pieces of cloth she used for wiping her swords and spread it over her hand. If cursed items worked here in the same way as they did in D&D, or resembled the One Ring, she didn't want to risk touching it. "Put it on the cloth."

Sinding pulled a ring from his finger, stuck his hand out through the bars of the cell, and dropped it onto the cloth. "Thank you," he said. "I shall remember your kindness."

The ring was silver and had a sculpted wolf's head projecting from it in the place of a gemstone. Rhiannon saw it clearly only for a second and then it vanished. In its place appeared a ring that gave the wearer improved skills with a sword, found by her in Shroud Hearth Barrow outside Ivarstead, and which she had been wearing on her right hand.

" _Beth y uffern_?" Rhiannon exclaimed. She snatched away the cloth and looked at her hand. The wolf's-head ring was firmly on her finger and her frantic attempts to remove it failed. " _M_ _ae hi wedi cachi arna i_ _!_ " She glared at Sinding.

"Seek out the beast," Sinding said. "I wish you luck." Hair began to sprout all over his body, he grew in size, and his jaws began to protrude and take the form of a wolf's muzzle. In seconds the transformation was complete and, instead of a man, a bipedal wolf-like creature stood in the cell. It leapt up the wall, clung on with newly-grown claws, and climbed up through the roof opening and out of sight.

Rhiannon concentrated on the ring and cast the minor spell that would enable her to identify magic items; a much easier process here than in D&D, luckily, with no need for material components. The results confirmed her fears. The wearer would, indeed, randomly transform into a werewolf. It couldn't be removed except by the will of Hircine or by being freely accepted by someone else – who would then be afflicted by the same curse. And in this world magic rings could only be worn one at a time, on the right hand, so her other magic ring was useless to her now.

"Here, take this," Rhiannon told Jenassa, proffering the Ring of Wielding. She gave a quick account of what her spell had revealed. "And then you'd better leave me. If I'm going to turn into a ravening beast you'd better not be in the vicinity. I'd hate to hurt you."

"I will not abandon you in your time of need," Jenassa declared. "I think you need my help more than ever."

"Then let's get after that stag," Rhiannon said. "The quicker we can get this done, the less chance there is of me turning into a werewolf."

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Finding the White Stag was easy. Catching it… not so much. It was fast, evasive, and seemed determined to lead them into danger.

Not far out of town the road passed through a little valley. To each side a wooden guard tower had been built, with a walkway of planks suspended on ropes running between the towers, presumably as part of the town's defenses. Instead of guards, however, it was manned by a pair of bandits.

Perhaps they'd killed the guards and taken over or, more likely, Jarl Siddgeir couldn't be bothered to keep the post manned and the bandits had moved in and occupied the abandoned post. Either way they controlled the road and were preying on travelers. The towers held stores of boulders, which could be released to fall upon the road, and the bandits triggered the deadfalls. Rhiannon and Jenassa had to jump smartly out of the way to avoid being crushed. And then the bandits began to loose arrows from their vantage points above the roadway. Running, and dodging, Rhiannon and Jenassa managed to get off the road without being hit either by rocks or arrows.

"We must take the fight to them, sera," Jenassa advised.

Rhiannon could see her point; with the advantage of position the bandits would win any exchange of fire. She thought she could see ways up the rocky slopes of the valley that would get them in close without exposing them too much; hopefully, anyway.

"You go that way, I'll go this," she said, and set off up the nearest slope as fast as she could run. Jenassa made for the other slope and both of them closed on the bandits.

Rhiannon managed to make it to the tower safely and rushed at the bandit, a woman, who was in the act of changing from bow to sword. Rhiannon caught her with sword half-drawn and struck before the bandit could react. The woman went down, blood spurting, and Rhiannon looked across at the other tower just in time to see the other bandit aiming at her. She leapt aside and the shaft only grazed her shoulder. Then Jenassa appeared behind that bandit and drove both swords into the man's back.

With the immediate danger over, and the adrenalin rush subsiding, Rhiannon felt renewed horror at having killed again. She fought down the emotion and tried to act logically. In D&D the first thing her character would have done would be to loot the bodies. This seemed to be in accordance with the way things were done here and she checked out her fallen foe's equipment.

A steel-reinforced composite bow, better than her own, and a quiver of arrows. She took them and looked at the woman's sword. Basic iron, like the one she had acquired in Helgen that had snapped off in the body of a bear, and not valuable enough to be worth the encumbrance. But on the woman's brow was a circlet, of gold set with green gems, and Rhiannon sensed that it was magic.

An Identify spell confirmed that it was, indeed, enchanted; a Circlet of Major Archery, better than the circlet Rhiannon had been given by Lucan Valerius in Riverwood, and Rhiannon was surprised that she'd come out of the fight with only a single, minor, arrow wound. Either she'd had a lot of luck or the bandit had been such a terrible shot with a bow that even the circlet couldn't bring her up to a decent standard.

Or else she'd been aiming at Jenassa, Rhiannon realized, once she was reunited with her companion. An arrow had struck Jenassa in the back, piercing her armor, and was still projecting from the wound. And, after removing the arrow, it took all of Rhiannon's healing magic, and two potions, before Jenassa, now wearing the Circlet of Minor Archery, was fit to continue on.

As Rhiannon was casting the healing spells she felt herself, horribly, slavering at the scent of the blood. The prospect of transforming into a werewolf seemed to be looming ominously closer.

"We'd better get back to hunting that deer," she said, trying to fight down any wolfish impulses. "Which way did it go?"

It didn't take long to locate the stag once more. It hadn't gone far; perhaps it was hanging around deliberately, allowing them to hunt it, but once they got within range it ran off again. It was fast, and evasive, and it seemed to regenerate from arrow wounds as quickly as the frost troll had done. Eventually, however, it ran into a blind canyon and, when it tried to run out past them, Rhiannon was able to catch it a solid blow with her newly-enchanted flaming sword. It went down and Jenassa delivered a finishing stroke.

"Now what…" Rhiannon began, but before she could finish her sentence a shimmering, ghostly, figure appeared above the corpse of the White Stag. The apparition looked almost identical to the dead beast, except for being transparent, but it spoke in a human voice.

"Well met, hunter," it said.

"You're… Hircine, is it?" Rhiannon asked.

"I am the Spirit of the Hunt," the being replied. "Just one glimpse of the glorious stalker that your kind calls Hircine."

"Uh, well met, Hircine," Rhiannon said. "Will you take back this ring and get rid of the werewolf curse on me?" There was no point in asking to be transported back to Earth, she felt, not if she was likely to become a werewolf at random times. Ripping Charlotte, or Sasha Banks, limb from limb in the ring wouldn't do much for her career in the WWE.

"I may consider it," said Hircine, "but you must first do a service for my glory. The one who stole it has fled to what he thinks is his sanctuary, just as a bear climbs a tree to escape the hunt, but only ends up trapping himself. Seek out this rogue shifter. Tear the skin from his body and make it an offering to me."

"You mean… kill Sinding?"

"I do," said Hircine. "Only if you do this will I remove your curse. But you must fly, my hunter. There are others who vie for my favor. A bit of competition. Don't dally while the prey flees."

"I don't have a choice, do I?" Rhiannon said. "Where is this… sanctuary?"

"Bloated Man's Grotto," Hircine answered. "Hurry there, hunter, for if the others get there before you… the curse will remain, and you may find yourself as the next quarry for the hunt." With that he vanished.

"Wait!" Rhiannon called. "Where's this Bloated Man's Grotto at?"

"I know where it is, sera," Jenassa said. "It is in Whiterun Hold, just off the main road from Whiterun to Markarth. It is said to be a perilous place, and I have never been inside, but I can find the way there. From here I think that the quickest route would be to cut through the mountains by way of Brittleshin Pass. We must start off in the direction of Riverwood, and cross the White River near the Guardian Stones, where it exits Lake Ilinalta, and then make for the pass."

"Lead the way," Rhiannon said.

They moved on and it wasn't long before they were walking along the road that ran parallel to the lakeshore.

"If we swam across the lake it would shorten our journey, sera," Jenassa said, "but I am not sure it would be worth it. We would have to protect our bowstrings, and anything else that might be damaged by water, and then unwrap them at the other side. And there are slaughterfish in the lake."

"I don't know what slaughterfish are," Rhiannon said, "but they sound nasty. I think I'd rather walk. By the way, Jenassa, I keep meaning to ask you – what does 'sera' mean?"

Jenassa frowned. "It is a title of respect," she said, "used only to women. I think in your tongue the closest equivalent would be 'Mistress'. Perhaps, now you are a Thane, I should say 'serjo', which is the term used for members of the nobility."

"I don't feel like a noble," Rhiannon said. "Keep using 'sera'. Or you could call me by my name."

"Should I call you 'Dragonborn'?" Jenassa suggested.

Rhiannon shook her head. "Just call me Rhiannon," she said. "I don't want to attract too much attention."

And then the dragon attacked.

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The following article was first posted on December 14, the day that Rhiannon went missing, and we have considered taking it down. On reflection, however, we have decided to leave it up as a tribute to her. Jason Pinkney, Editor, ThatCulture Wrestling News.

 **Taming the Dragon – is the WWE mishandling Rhiannon?**

It's not a huge secret that Rhiannon is a place-holder champion. After Nicky Bella passed AJ Lee's record, becoming the longest-reigning Divas Champion in history, it was intended that she should lose the title to Charlotte. Charlotte's shoulder injury made that impossible, Paige's sprained ankle ruled her out as an alternative, and the regular crowd chants of 'We want Sasha' only seem to be making the Authority even more determined not to give The Boss the title reign she deserves. Out of the remaining contenders they went for Rhiannon, most probably because of the impending Live Events tour of Europe and the British Isles, and the PR they could generate from a British champion. With that out of the way, and Charlotte and Paige both fit to return, Rhiannon's reign will, undoubtedly, be coming to an end soon.

And yet she's been a surprisingly popular champion. She's always been a good worker, proficient at mic skills despite her accent being strange to American ears, and very good at selling losses. As champion, however, for the first time she's been allowed to show just how good she is at selling victories.

She's the tallest Diva in the main roster, quite possibly the strongest, and an excellent technical wrestler with an extensive repertoire of moves. It's a compliment to her skills that the WWE allows her to use her 'Dragon Driver' finisher, a variation on Mitsuharu Misawa's 'Tiger Driver', a move forbidden to most wrestlers in the WWE because of its potential for serious injury if not performed perfectly. When Rhiannon steamrollers an opponent who is some four or five inches shorter than her, or powers out of their holds without apparent effort, there is no suspension of disbelief required at all.

It's been my opinion for a long time that the Divas division could use an unstoppable monster, the equivalent of Brock Lesnar's role in the men's, destroying opponents at will. Prime contenders for that role would be Awesome Kong, despite the way she was under-used in her brief WWE stint as Kharma, and Nia Jax. Perhaps, though, Rhiannon would make a good alternative, at least in the short term until Nia Jax moves up to the main roster, and after that Rhiannon could feud with Nia in a parallel to the Undertaker's feud with Lesnar. An equivalent Clash of the Titans. And, if the rumors that Ronda Rousey will come to the WWE ever materialize, Rhiannon is one of the few who could credibly stand against her.

Rhiannon's biggest weakness, as far as selling her goes, is that she's just too likeable a personality to make a credible heel. That's a downside when it comes to playing an unstoppable beast, not a role traditionally associated with a face. Big Show's spells as a face, however, have shown that it can work. Another example is the applause that broke out when Ryback, after losing to Kalisto in the recent title elimination series, took the defeat in good grace and shook Kalisto's hand. That's exactly the kind of action that would come naturally to Rhiannon and it should play well with the crowd when she's booked to lose against a smaller opponent.

Ideally, of course, there should be a Divas Tag Team Championship. It's a major lack in a division full of teams and partnerships, with a succession of tag matches that don't mean anything, and a belt would give things a much-needed shot in the arm. The obvious role for Rhiannon would be in a 'Celtic Warriors' team with Becky Lynch. It's one of the few foreign pairings that should play well with Americans, who tend to like the Irish, and who know of the Welsh primarily through Tom Jones. I've been harping on – no pun intended, I only realized the connection between harps and both the Welsh and the Irish after I typed the phrase – about the need for a Tag Team Championship in the division for months now, but there's still no sign that it's going to happen, and I don't expect it to come any time soon.

So, barring that, I'd urge the WWE to give Rhiannon more of a chance to shine. After she loses the title, have her retake it. Set things up so that she's a star player at WrestleMania 32, either defending her title – perhaps against Sasha Banks – or making a renewed challenge to retake it; and book her to win. Give her a run as an irresistible force, an unstoppable beast, a (friendly) monster. Let the Dragon roar.

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It wasn't targeting them, Rhiannon realized, after the first terrifying moments when it passed overhead and strafed them with its fiery breath as it went by. The flames missed them, narrowly, and then the dragon was past and slowing to hover near a circle of standing stones not far from the road. It let loose another jet of flame and, in response, a blue-white stream of magic energy shot up from someone within the circle.

In full flight it was a difficult target for Rhiannon, even with the help of her new circlet, but the dragon's hovering, almost stationary in the air, made for a much easier shot. She hit with two shafts, Jenassa beating her score by one, and then the dragon was on the move again. They dived for cover behind the low stone wall that bordered the road. Rhiannon cringed, expecting to feel flames washing over her, but the dragon passed by without attacking. Instead it flew out over the lake, descended over a small island, hovered again and unleashed its breath weapon on a fisherman's tent. The fisherman fled, his clothes alight, and dived into the water. Rhiannon and Jenassa loosed more arrows, although the range was extreme, and Rhiannon couldn't tell whether or not they'd managed to achieve anything.

The dragon wheeled and headed inland again. Rhiannon ducked back into cover but, once more, the dragon ignored her. It returned to the standing stones and engaged in another duel with someone there, most probably a mage, and then made for a new target yet further inland.

Rhiannon chased after it, and could see Jenassa doing the same, and managed to reach a position where she could get a good view of the hovering dragon just in time to loose one arrow before it moved off. She was quite close to the standing stones, and was vaguely aware of a black-robed figure there shooting bolts of magical energy in the direction of the dragon, but her attention was concentrated on the dragon. She saw it turn and head directly in her direction, descending, coming in to land.

And then her vision began to turn red, her pulse pounded in her ears, and her skin began to prickle. She felt her chest swelling, the bodice of her armor becoming unbearably tight, and she dropped her bow and pulled the armor over her head and let it fall. Her face was distorting, her mouth extending, and with almost her last conscious thought she realized that she was transforming into a werewolf. Then there was nothing but a red mist, hunger, and rage.

The next thing of which she was aware was the sensation of a dragon's soul pouring into her. Her vision cleared, she felt herself shrinking, and she was able to think rationally once more. When she came fully back to herself she realized that she was standing, stark naked, in front of the dragon's skeleton. And, a few feet away, was the corpse of an Elf in mage robes. His body was savagely torn, bearing the marks of fangs and claws, but too small to be the work of the dragon. Rhiannon gasped in horror as she realized that she, as a werewolf, must be responsible.

"What have I done?" she gasped, and then an even more horrifying thought struck her. "Jenassa!"

"I am here, sera – Rhiannon," Jenassa's voice responded. Rhiannon turned and saw her some yards away, beside one of the standing stones, in the act of slinging her bow over her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Rhiannon asked. "I didn't hurt you? Look you what I've done! I killed that man."

"Do not concern yourself with him, my patron," said Jenassa. "Look over here. He was a vile necromancer who had sacrificed an innocent. Your slaying him is nothing to regret."

Rhiannon, still naked, went over to join Jenassa and saw that in the middle of the circle of stones was what appeared to be an altar. The body of a young woman, soaked in blood, lay there. On the ground around the altar were several human skeletons.

"I… suppose you're right," Rhiannon said. "I was terrified I might have harmed you."

"You made no move to attack me," Jenassa said. "Even in beast form our bond seemed to remain."

"That's a relief," Rhiannon said, "but I don't want to risk it again. I'd better get dressed and we'll move on." She headed back toward where her discarded armor, backpack, and weapons lay but before she could don them there was an interruption.

"Well, what have we here?" a male voice exclaimed. "We came to see if there was anything worth looting on a dragon's body and find two pretty women. And one of them is naked already. Couldn't be better."

Two men were approaching, one wearing studded leather and the other in a full set of iron armor, both of them wielding weapons. Bandits.

"This more than makes up for the damage the dragon did to our camp," the bandit in iron went on. "The Dark Elf is armed, Hararik, so I'll take her. You grab the nude one. But don't indulge yourself yet. I want first go."

The leather-clad bandit sheathed his sword and made for Rhiannon. She looked for her sword-belt, and saw it on the ground, but it was closer to the bandit than it was to her. She'd have to defend herself with her bare hands – but that was what Rhiannon did best. And against a would-be rapist she felt no qualms whatsoever about using potentially lethal moves.

The bandit made a clumsy grab at her. Rhiannon performed a sweeping deflection parry, sending him off-balance, and sidestepped. She slipped past the stumbling bandit, got behind him, and wrapped her left arm around his neck. Her right arm came across, she grasped its bicep with her left, and she hooked her right hand behind the bandit's head to complete the figure-four variant of a rear naked choke hold; she felt it oddly appropriate in the circumstances. She dropped to her knees, bringing her full weight to bear on his neck, bending him over backward. And then she simply applied pressure.

The bandit pawed at her, and groped for his sword, but Rhiannon ignored his struggles. With this hold compressing his carotid arteries, and shutting off the flow of blood to his brain, he'd be unconscious in a few seconds. Recovery would be just as quick, if she released the hold, but she had no intention of so doing.

She turned her head to see how Jenassa was faring and was just in time to see Jenassa disarm her opponent with one sword and then slash her other blade across his throat. Rhiannon felt her opponent cease his struggles, go limp, and sag against her. In the ring she would have released immediately. Here… she remembered her instructors' warnings never, ever, to apply the choke for more than thirty seconds at most and decided that two minutes should be about right.

"Have you… killed him?" Jenassa asked.

"Not yet," Rhiannon said. A part of her was appalled at what she was doing but another, and stronger, part overruled the first. She continued to apply pressure until a sudden stench, and liquid dripping onto her lower legs, told her that the bandit was dead.

"Eww!" Rhiannon exclaimed, standing up quickly and grimacing. Her legs were damp and, also, she realized that she was covered in blood. "I'm going to wash this off in the lake."

"The blood may attract slaughterfish," Jenassa warned her.

"I'll take that risk," Rhiannon said, and hurried down the slope toward the water. Jenassa followed, readying her bow, but Rhiannon took no notice and plunged straight into the lake. She rubbed herself clean, returned to the shore, and turned for a brief look out over the lake.

It was then that she spotted two things that she would have seen earlier if she hadn't been concentrating on getting clean. One was a fish, resembling a large pike or a small barracuda, which was floating on the surface of the water with an arrow sticking out of it. It wasn't big enough to have posed a risk to her life but could, no doubt, have delivered a nasty bite had Jenassa not shot it.

The other thing she had overlooked was a person. The fisherman who had dived into the water to extinguish the dragon-fire was still there, staring at her, his mouth so wide open that he might have been trying to impersonate a basking shark. Hastily Rhiannon brought her arms across to cover herself and then fled back toward her clothes.

She dried herself off on a spare set of footwraps, scrubbed dirt from the soles of her feet, and then started to get dressed. Her boots were ruined, and the fastenings of her underwear had snapped; luckily they were the local product, tied with drawstrings, and not her only set of irreplaceable Earth underwear. Even more luckily the wristband of her watch hadn't been damaged; presumably the wrists of a werewolf were no larger than those of a human. She put on another set of the local undergarments, unwilling to risk the Earth version in the event of her becoming a werewolf again, and then pulled on her spare boots and her armor.

"We'd better get going," she said, as she donned her sword-belt.

"I suggest that we check the bandits' camp first," Jenassa said. "There will be loot there, no doubt, and it is possible that they might have a captive to be rescued."

"Good thinking," Rhiannon said, "but let's make it quick."

There was no captive. There was, however, another bandit. This one was injured already, having suffered burns from the dragon-fire, but he refused to surrender and had to be slain. A chest held a hundred septims, an ingot of iron, and a soul gem, a pouch containing sixty septims lay on a bed-roll inside a somewhat charred tent, and in another tent was a book. It was called _Night Falls on Sentinel_ and it was enchanted to give its reader greater skills at fighting with one-handed weapons, such as swords or maces. Valuable indeed and it, in itself, made this detour to loot the bandit camp worthwhile.

Rhiannon was getting edgy, however, dreading the prospect of another werewolf transformation occurring when there was no dragon to act as a focus for the beast's rage, and she was glad when they could move on again. Down to the road, along the path until they reached the point where the river exited the lake, and then they waded across where the water was shallow. Across country for a mile or so, up a hillside, and then they reached a cave that Jenassa said was South Brittleshin Pass.

And they walked straight into more peril. The tunnel was occupied. A rune on the floor exploded as they stepped on it, injuring both of them slightly, and beyond that they had to fight skeletons. A necromancer lurked in a large room further on, sending another skeleton to melee with them whilst he attacked with jets of biting frost magic. They took him down with arrows, healed themselves, and searched his lair for valuables.

Rhiannon opened a chest, narrowly avoiding being brained by a trap that released a mace on a chain swinging at head height, and found inside it some gold, a couple of potions, and an odd crystal object that rather resembled a baseball-sized twenty-sided die. She picked it up and was startled when it spoke to her.

"A new hand touches the beacon," it said, in the voice of a somewhat haughty and aristocratic woman. "Listen. Hear me and obey."

"Who are you?" Rhiannon queried. "And why should I obey you?"

"I am Meridia, Prince of Life, Lady of Infinite Energies," the voice replied. "You will obey me because to do otherwise would be foolish. I offer a great reward."

Rhiannon remembered coming across references to Meridia, in the same source that had given her some information about Hircine, and the book had named Meridia as one of the few Daedric Princes who could be regarded as benevolent. "I'll consider it," she said. "Can you rid me of this werewolf curse?"

"Alas, I cannot interfere with one of Hircine's hunts," Meridia replied. "You will have to resolve that matter yourself. But I can wait. Cleanse yourself of his taint and then you can carry out my task. A foul darkness has seeped into my temple. A darkness that you will destroy. Return my beacon to Mount Kilkreath and I will make you the instrument of my cleansing light."

"I don't have time to go into this right now," Rhiannon said. "I'll get back to you." She shoved the crystal into her pack, gathered up the rest of the loot, and moved on.

Once clear of the necromancer's chamber they were faced by yet another trap; this one a soul gem, mounted on a pillar, that shot spears of ice at anyone who came within range. Rhiannon managed to disarm it by using her Unrelenting Force shout to dislodge the gem.

And then, somewhat battered but richer by several magic items, a new spell, and a decent amount of gold, they emerged on the north side of the mountains. The sun had set, during their journey through the passage, but the two moons and the stars provided sufficient light for them to see where they were going.

"Darkness falls, and nature sleeps," Rhiannon quoted. "So why do we still tromp about?"

Jenassa stopped and stared at her. "You have been stressing the urgency of this mission, Rhiannon," she said. "Have you changed your mind? The danger of you becoming a werewolf again has not diminished."

"No, I was just quoting from a… play," Rhiannon said. There was no point in trying to explain video games to Jenassa. Not that Rhiannon had ever played the _Baldur's Gate_ games herself, she tended to avoid things that could soak up that much time, but she'd heard a lot about them and watched extracts on YouTube. "I'm… missing my home, I think. YouTube, and TV Tropes, and _Strictly_ … and not having to kill people. Forget it. Which way now? Down this path, is it?"

"That is correct," Jenassa confirmed, "and then we turn left when we reach the road and proceed to the west. We should reach Bloated Man's Grotto within the hour."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon was most familiar with grottos in the context of 'Santa's Grotto'. Toys, and reindeer, and little elves, and a jolly fat man with a red costume and a cotton-wool beard. This wasn't like that at all. A red moon shone down from overhead, bathing everything in a light that appeared to be filtered through blood, and the first thing they encountered was a small campsite littered with dead bodies.

One of them stirred as they approached. A Khajiit, terribly injured but still alive, and he raised his head and spoke.

"The prey is strong," he said. "Stronger than the hunters. But more will come. Bring him down, for the glories of Lord Hircine." Then, before Rhiannon could get to him with a Healing Hands spell, the Khajiit slumped down again and his head lolled limp. The spell had no effect.

"He's dead, Jim," Rhiannon said.

"Jim?"

"It's another line from a play," Rhiannon said. "I'm an actress. I do that a lot." She examined the body and found the marks of fangs and claws. "Sinding must have killed them. I hope we're better fighters than they were."

"I believe the werewolf took them by surprise as they rested," Jenassa said. "They were foolish to make camp while on such a quest." She checked out the equipment on the corpses, topped up her quiver with arrows taken from one of them, but took nothing else. "Their gear is of lower quality than ours," she assessed. "I see no enchanted weapons or armor. I am certain that we can give a better account of ourselves."

"Let's hope so," Rhiannon said, with a shudder. There seemed to be only one path leading out of the clearing in which the fallen hunters had camped. Rhiannon and Jenassa advanced, cautiously, along the path and almost at once saw their quarry.

Sinding, in werewolf form, stood atop a rock that towered over the path. "You? Why?" he asked, his voice a bestial grunt, and then he seemed to gain some control and spoke in a more human voice. "I never thought I'd see you again," he said. "Have you come to hunt me down?"

"Hircine told me the only way I can get free of this werewolf curse is for me to kill you," Rhiannon said.

"I can't stop you, if that's what you want to do," Sinding replied. "Hircine is too powerful. But if you spare me, I can be a powerful ally to you. And I would promise to never return to civilized life. I know now that I can't live among people."

"I can't not live among people, and I can't take the risk that I'll suddenly change into a werewolf and kill someone… like you did," Rhiannon said. "I don't want to kill you… but better you than Jenassa, or Delphine, or… a little girl."

"So be it, then," Sinding said. He jumped down from the rock, on the far side, and disappeared from sight.

Rhiannon and Jenassa advanced along the trail, alert for ambush, and came to a flight of steps. At the top was a walled area in which lay an iron-bound wooden chest. "We'd better check it out," Rhiannon said. "You never know, there might be a magic weapon inside. That would be worth the delay."

The chest wasn't locked. It didn't hold any magic weapons, alas, but it did contain an enchanted helmet of an odd metal, which seemed almost to resemble glass, unlike anything Rhiannon had seen before. As well as the helm they found a small sack of gold, a Potion of Healing, and a jade circlet set with sapphires. Valuable, no doubt, but of no immediate help.

Even as they were looting the chest they heard a commotion ahead. Snarls, growls, and screams. They stuffed their finds into their packs and hurried on, arrows nocked, and descended another flight of stone steps. Near the bottom lay the body of a steel-clad warrior. His steel armor hadn't saved him from being torn apart.

Sinding had to be close. The temptation was to hurry but Rhiannon forced herself to slow down. There was no point in catching up to the werewolf only to have him leap out from ambush and take them by surprise.

As, it seemed, he had done to others. Several other fresh corpses, still oozing blood from multiple wounds, lay at the edges of the trail. And then the two girls turned a corner and saw the werewolf engaged in combat with a pair of hunters.

They aimed and loosed at once, hampered by trying to avoid hitting Sinding's foes, but both managed to score hits on the werewolf without striking the wrong target. It didn't save the hunters. Sinding tore out the throat from a leather-clad Khajiit, seeming to ignore both the arrows and a blow from the war-axe of the Khajiit's human companion, and then turned on the remaining hunter and savaged him. Rhiannon and Jenassa shot the werewolf again but to no apparent effect. Then Sinding cast the human hunter's body aside and charged.

Rhiannon dropped her bow and drew her swords. She was aware of Jenassa mirroring her actions but her attention was concentrated on the oncoming werewolf. His claws swung at her, fast and powerful, and she tried to meet them with the edges of her blades. The two weapons, one enchanted with fire and the other with frost, bit deep into Sinding's arms but he still managed to get through and land a strike on the bodice of her studded leather armor. The claws pierced the leather and tore the skin of her left breast. Painful but shallow, not in any way life-threatening, and Rhiannon could have stayed on her feet. Instead she allowed herself to be knocked down and, just as she hoped, the beast turned to face Jenassa.

Rhiannon whirled her legs and performed a Black Dragon spin-up, as she had done when fighting Mikael the Bard, and regained her feet far faster than anyone untrained in martial arts could have expected. Sinding's back was to her and his attention was on Jenassa. Rhiannon thrust with both blades, with every ounce of her power, and drove them deep into the werewolf's body. Sinding howled, staggered, and his arms dropped. Jenassa took instant advantage and slashed her right-hand sword across his throat. The beast collapsed and lay still.

"I saw you felled and thought you slain, or badly injured at best," Jenassa said, after checking that Sinding was dead. "I feared for both our lives."

"I get knocked down, but I get up again, you're never going to keep me down," Rhiannon quoted. "I'm trained to make it look as if I'm hurt when I'm not. I thought he'd fall for it and it worked."

"It did indeed," Jenassa said, "and together we have slain a mighty opponent. But now, according to Lord Hircine's command, we must skin him."

Rhiannon winced. "Tear the skin from his body, he said," she remembered. "I've never done anything like that." She could feel blood soaking into her bra, and trickling down her body under her armor, and hastily cast a healing spell. "I hope this won't leave a scar," she said. "Nothing has, yet, but I've seen people walking around with scars on their arms and their faces."

"Once a wound has healed naturally, without benefit of spell or potion, any scarring will remain," Jenassa explained. "The Orcs, and some Nords, scorn magical healing. More fool them."

"I agree," Rhiannon said. "There's daft, it is, not to take advantage of the good things about this world." She looked down at the dead werewolf and the dead hunters. "I don't think trying to skin him with swords will work," she said, "especially ones which burn or freeze. Maybe one of these two will have a dagger."

Both of the fallen hunters proved to possess daggers that looked suitable for skinning animal corpses. The two women set about removing the hide from the werewolf; Jenassa emotionlessly and with the competence of one who had done similar things many times before, Rhiannon clumsily, guided only by memories of watching Eivin Kilcher skinning a deer on _Alaska's Last Frontier_ , and struggling to hold herself back from vomiting. Once the corpse had been skinned a ghostly figure appeared beside it.

This apparition took the form of Sinding, in his human shape, and for a moment Rhiannon thought that it was in fact the werewolf's ghost. Until it spoke. "You've done well, hunter," the apparition said, in the voice Hircine had used when appearing as the White Stag.

"I did as you asked," Rhiannon said. "Now will you take back this ring?"

"I will," Hircine agreed, "and you have found my favor. That skin will serve you well, child. Look more closely at it. My glories shall protect you from all the world's grievances. Good hunting."

Rhiannon felt the cursed ring leaving her finger. She looked down at what had been a bloody and ragged pelt and saw that it had transformed. Now a piece of armor lay where the pelt had been; a bodice of fur and leather with a metal breastplate, embossed in the center with the image of a werewolf's face, with claws projecting up from the shoulders in barbaric fashion. She looked up again at where Hircine had stood but saw that he had departed.

She picked up the armor. "Enchanted, I'll bet," she said, and she confirmed this with an Identify spell. "It's called Savior's Hide, and is enchanted with Magic Resistance and Poison Resistance," she announced. "There's handy, but I'm not happy about wearing something that was a person. If you would like it…"

Jenassa shook her head. "No doubt it is tailored to you, and would be too large for me," she said, "and I fear that the wrath of Hircine might fall upon any but you who wore the garment. Wear it, sera, and do not concern yourself with the fate of Sinding. He brought his woes upon himself."

Rhiannon moved away from the blood-stained area around the skinned werewolf corpse, unbuckled her pack, and stripped off her armor. She took off her ripped bra, used the clean half of it to wipe away the blood from her chest, and tossed the bra away. "I'll run out of underwear soon, at this rate," she remarked, as she replaced the torn bra with the one from her only remaining set of locally-made undergarments. "We'll need to do some shopping when we get back to Falkreath."

She pulled on the Savior's Hide and found that, as Jenassa had predicted, it fit her perfectly. The claws around its top had worried her, at first sight, but once she was wearing the garment she found that they were curved in such a way that she was safe from scratching her face or neck no matter how she moved her head. The armor was warm and supremely comfortable.

"There's lush," she declared. "I can move really well in this. My old armor needs repair, now, but maybe it could be altered to fit you. Or I could use it to learn the Health enchantment and put that on your armor."

"That would be advantageous," Jenassa agreed. "Now," she said, rubbing her hands together, "we should loot the bodies of the fallen hunters."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

They snatched some sleep, in the camp-site of the first group of ill-fated hunters, and arose as dawn was breaking. The grotto, by natural light rather than the sickly glow of Hircine's Blood Moon, looked quite pleasant, almost appealing, if you could ignore the mutilated corpses.

There was a pool near the little circle of tents, clear and fresh and inviting, and Rhiannon bathed in it after drawing water to, at long last, make herself a cup of tea. In the process of bathing she discovered a chest sunken in the water and, opening it, found sixty septims. Her funds were mounting up nicely. She was still short of the five thousand septims that it would take to purchase a house in Windhelm, even not counting the additional cost of furnishing it, but it no longer seemed unattainable.

Once clean she settled down to breakfast and the longed-for tea. The Khajiit version of tea-leaves bore a close resemblance to the black tea she knew at home, not unlike Welsh Brew Tea or Yorkshire Tea, and would have gone well with milk and sugar. They weren't available, and so she drank it black and unsweetened, relishing it anyway. Jenassa tried it, hesitantly at first, but found it quite palatable.

"Now, child, you have time to speak with me," a voice interrupted their breakfast.

Rhiannon jumped, almost spilling her tea, and looked around. She realized that the voice, female and imperious in tone, was coming from her backpack. The crystal that had called itself the beacon of Meridia. She set down the pewter goblet she was using as a tea-cup, opened her pack, and took out the crystal object.

"What do you want?" she asked. "You want me to take this… beacon somewhere, is it?"

"I do," Meridia's voice confirmed. "The necromancer Malkoran has defiled my temple, tainting it with vile corruptions, using the power stored within my own token to fuel his foul deeds. I am in need of a champion to cleanse the temple. Malkoran had given the beacon to one of his acolytes, seeking to remove it far from where it could be used to gain access to the temple, and – lo! – it fell into the hands of one who is a Champion indeed. His own schemes shall be his undoing."

Rhiannon put the crystal down on the ground and retrieved her cup of tea. "So this… Malkoran is the boss of the one in Brittleshin Pass, is it? And you want me to evict him from your temple?"

"Mere eviction would not suffice," Meridia replied. "He must die for his blasphemy. And if he is not slain he will use the army that he is creating to wreak havoc upon the world of mortals."

"I agree that getting rid of him sounds like a good idea," Rhiannon said, "but I have to meet someone in Riverwood in four days' time. Where's this temple of yours at, then?"

"Close to the city of Solitude, perhaps an hour's walk west of that city at a mortal's pace," Meridia said. "I shall cause its location to appear upon your map."

Rhiannon retrieved the map from her pack, unfolded it, and found that a glowing spot had appeared upon the parchment near to where Farengar had marked the location of Solitude. "I suppose we're part of the way there already," she conceded. "Jenassa, what do you think? Could we get there and back again in time to meet up with Delphine?"

"If we stick to the roads, and meet no delays upon the way, then there would be time enough," Jenassa said. "The way across country is shorter, as the hawk flies, but there is a much greater chance that we would encounter obstacles, or foes, that would make the journey time longer."

"Short cuts make long delays," Rhiannon agreed, quoting Pippin in _The Fellowship of the Ring_. "Hmm. Ustengrav, where we'll be going with Delphine, is between here and there," she noted. "It might be best to wait until then and carry on to your temple after we've retrieved that Horn thing."

"Perhaps," Meridia conceded, "but I warn you that Malkoran's forces will grow stronger as you delay. And my artifact could be of great use to you in your other tasks."

"So what is this artifact, then?" Rhiannon asked.

"A sword, a mighty weapon dedicated to the destruction of the Undead," Meridia informed her. "Wielding Dawnbreaker you would be truly the bane of draugr and other such foul perversions of life."

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon. She studied the map. "Granite Hill, that place Falkreath's version of Kim Jong-Un wanted us to check out, isn't far from here, and in the right direction," she said. "Okay, then, we'll head for your temple. But if we start running short of time we'll turn back and do your quest later, right?"

"That is… acceptable," said Meridia. "I shall speak to you again when you reach my temple."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The settlement of Granite Hill no longer existed. Only charred ruins showed where an inn, and the surrounding farmhouses, had stood. The pastures were empty of livestock and the only signs of the human inhabitants were the blackened corpses of people burnt to death.

"That explains why they didn't pay their taxes," Rhiannon said. "A dragon did this. The one we killed back at the lakeshore, do you think?"

"That is probable," Jenassa agreed. "I believe that this is the direction from which it approached us and it would be no great distance for a flying dragon." She tensed. "Beware! A sabre-cat watches us."

Rhiannon followed her gaze and saw a huge feline, at least as big as a lion, rising from where it had been feeding on the corpse of a cow. The fangs that protruded from its upper jaw looked to be approaching a foot in length. "A saber-toothed tiger!" she exclaimed. "I didn't know you had those in this world."

The big cat approached, flattening itself low to the ground in a fashion that could only mean that it was stalking them, and Jenassa readied her bow.

"Wait!" Rhiannon commanded. "I want to try something. KAAN!"

The sabre-cat halted its advance, rose to its full four-foot height, and turned around. It ambled, unconcernedly, back toward the dead cow. The Shout that Rhiannon had found in Shroud Hearth Barrow, and had unlocked with the soul of the dragon slain the day before, had worked.

"I don't think it lasts very long," Rhiannon said, "so we'd better be on our way while the going is good."

And they made good time. Alternating walking and jogging, like the Chosen Men in _Sharpe's Eagle_ , they kept up a rapid pace. In the middle of the afternoon they came upon another set of wooden towers connected by a walkway suspended above the road. And, just like the one in Falkreath Hold, this one was manned by bandits. Eight of them in total but, luckily, they were too thinly spread to gang up on the two girls.

"I'm getting sick of this," Rhiannon complained, once the last of the bandits lay dead at her feet. "Skyrim seems to have enough bandits to give even the Magnificent Seven problems."

"Who are the Magnificent Seven?" Jenassa asked.

"Heroes of my world," Rhiannon said, not bothering to explain that they were fictional. "The seven of them fought against forty well-armed bandits to protect a village. Four of the seven died, in the battle, but the bandits were almost all slain and the few survivors fled."

"A great deed," said Jenassa, "worthy of the Companions of Jorrvaskr."

That reminded Rhiannon that she had been invited to join the Companions, and had thought it might be a good way to get further training in sword-fighting and archery, but she'd almost forgotten about it. There had been too many other things more urgent and, after all, she seemed to be picking up quite a bit of on-the-job training in the form of experience.

And magical books. Jenassa picked up a book from a table in the bandit chief's hut, examined it, and then passed it to Rhiannon.

"The Black Arrow, Volume 2," Jenassa said. "It is a skill book for Archery. I have read it previously, and can learn from it no further, but it would be of benefit to you."

"There's tidy. Thanks," Rhiannon said. She tucked the book away and joined Jenassa in looting the camp. They didn't take the time to do a thorough search but, even so, ended up with more than they could carry and, reluctantly, left some of the armor and weaponry behind. Perhaps they'd have time to come back for them later, perhaps other bandits or innocent travelers would stumble upon them and take them away, but there was no other choice if they were to keep up their quick pace.

Keep it up they did. Resolutely ignoring suspicious-looking mages who might have been necromancers, using the Kyne's Peace Shout to get past wolves and bears without being attacked, they pressed on until, not too long after nightfall, they reached a bridge with a small town on the far side.

An unusual and spectacular bridge. It crossed a river gorge in a single span, arching slightly upward, and from each side of the parapet pillars projected upward in imitation of the spines on the back of a dragon. In the center the pillars were higher and joined together to form an arch that was crowned by a large statue of a dragon's head.

"There's impressive," Rhiannon remarked, as they passed under the sculpted figure. "This country is almost as obsessed with dragons as Wales is. Dragons on the money, Dragonsreach in Whiterun, and now this dragon bridge."

"I know little of the attitude of the Nords to dragons," Jenassa said. "It did not seem important until the creatures returned and began to attack."

"And I turned up and was told that it was my job to fight them," Rhiannon said. "Right now, though, all I want to do is find the inn and get a good night's sleep."

"I wonder," Jenassa mused, "if it might be a good plan to visit Solitude before we go to the temple of Meridia. We are on the verge of being overburdened with the spoils of war and have no room for more. If we make an early start tomorrow, and pay a brief visit to the city, we could sell what we have and thus make space for fresh acquisitions."

"We're ahead of schedule, and Meridia says it's only an hour's walk from her temple to Solitude," Rhiannon agreed, "so that sounds like a good plan to me."

It seemed less good to her late the next morning when, after a four-hour walk, they passed through the gates of Solitude and entered the city. An open courtyard lay just inside the gates, with the streets of shops and the like starting on the far side of the courtyard, and in that open area a crowd was gathered. Laborers and the like in common clothes, the wealthy in fine fabrics and furs, a few warrior types, and a young blonde woman, clad in scale armor and holding a lute, who stood out from the rest of the throng by virtue of her quite remarkable beauty. Perhaps a hundred or so in all, clustered in little groups, all looking in the same direction.

Rhiannon assumed that they were watching a performance of some kind, perhaps a musical concert or an orator making a speech, and she followed their example and looked across at that side of the square. Her eyes widened, her blood seemed to run cold, and for a moment she felt on the verge of fainting.

A prisoner stood on a raised terrace, flanked by guards, and a horribly familiar block of wood was positioned in front of him. Near the block a muscular man waited, a pole-axe in his hands, as an officer read out a sentence.

She was witnessing an execution.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

 _Beth yn uffern_? = What in hell?

 _M_ _ae hi wedi cachi arna i!_ = I'm buggered!


	7. You probably think this song is about

**Seven: You probably** **think this song is about you…**

"You look like you could use a drink," said the innkeeper. "We have drink for the thirsty, food for the hungry. You're not watching the execution? Everyone else is, which is why the place is almost empty."

Rhiannon could feel tears welling up behind her eyelids. "I… don't like executions," she said, just about managing to hold herself together. "I came in for a meal, and to see if you'd buy some wine I took from a bandit lair…" and to get away from the sight of the execution block before the axe fell… "but, yes, I think I need a drink."

"You do look a bit shaky, I have to say," the innkeeper said. "How about some Stros M'Kai rum? That will put some fire in your veins and help you pull yourself together."

It sounded good. In fact, Rhiannon felt like guzzling rum until she sank into blessed oblivion and could stop thinking about executioners' axes, and the way she'd choked the bandit to death even though he'd passed out, and having to skin Sinding's corpse, and… She took a deep breath. "Just put a dash of rum in a tankard of snowberry juice," she said. "I have to keep a clear head."

"And you, lady Dunmer?" the innkeeper went on, turning to Jenassa.

"I will have the same," Jenassa said.

"Right, that will be thirty septims for the two drinks, less what I give you for the wine," the innkeeper said. "Let's see. Two septims a bottle for this ordinary wine, three for the Alto, two each for the mead and the ale. Call it five septims you need to pay me. And you mentioned a meal?"

"A meat pie, with boiled potatoes," Rhiannon decided. They didn't do chips here, the concept of frying food in hot fat didn't seem to have reached Skyrim, and mashed potato was similarly unknown. But having to mash them herself was hardly laborious. "And some boiled cabbage."

"You'll have to wait a little," said the innkeeper. "It's a little early for most customers to be wanting luncheon and the cook went out to watch the execution. Ah, good, he's coming back. The show must be over."

"Oh what a circus, oh what a show," Rhiannon muttered under her breath. She handed over the coin, took her drink, and sipped at it. She and Jenassa took seats at a nearby table and she took a moment to look around the inn's common room.

It seemed to be a higher class of establishment than the Bannered Mare in Whiterun or the Dead Man's Drink in Falkreath. The furniture was more polished, pots of flowers served as decoration in addition to the animal heads mounted on the walls, and, most notably, there was a proper fireplace, with a built-in oven, instead of a fire pit. The air was free of the smoke that drifted through the Bannered Mare, that had made Rhiannon feel as if she was being kippered when she'd stayed there, and consequently the atmosphere was much more pleasant.

When Rhiannon had entered the only people around had been the innkeeper, a young girl of perhaps twelve or so, and a lizard man. Rhiannon tried to keep herself from staring at the creature, who looked to her like a man-sized Allosaurus dressed in human clothes, who was sitting in an alcove and drinking from a tankard. He must be an Argonian; she'd seen references to them in books but this was the first she'd encountered. She averted her eyes, not wanting to seem rude, and watched as more people entered the inn.

An elderly man, clad in studded leather armor that hung loosely on his frame, as if it had been made for him when he'd been a lot more muscular. An iron-clad warrior whose hairstyle, long at the back but receding drastically at the front, reminded Rhiannon of Hulk Hogan minus the moustache. A blonde woman wearing a long quilted jacket, rather ugly to Rhiannon's eyes, that seemed to be the preferred garb of nobles and the wealthy around here. A man, in workman's clothes, who was as dark-skinned as a Jamaican or Nigerian. The beautiful blonde girl with the lute. And two men and a woman who entered together and whose conversation caught Rhiannon's ear.

"Now that was a horrible sight to greet us when we come into port for a bit of quiet shore leave," said one of the men. His clothes were cut like those of the local nobles but were faded, threadbare in patches, and his boots were distinctly down at the heel.

"Don't worry about it, Xander," the woman in the group told him. It was the name by which she addressed the man that really grabbed Rhiannon's attention. "Worse things happen at sea, as they say. Quicker and cleaner than being hung from the yardarm."

"Hanged," Xander corrected her.

Rhiannon couldn't help staring, and listening intently, as the conversation between the three continued and confirmed that yes, she had heard correctly, the sailor really was called Xander. He was even similar in height, build, and hair color to Nicholas Brendon, although facially there was little resemblance.

"I see you are smiling for the first time since we entered Solitude," Jenassa remarked. "The dash of rum has helped, then?"

"Actually it's the name of one of the other customers that's cheered me up," Rhiannon told her. The trio of sailors had collected drinks and moved on, taking seats over at the far side of the room, and as the girl bard had now struck up a song Rhiannon was pretty sure they were out of hearing range. "He's called Xander. That's the name of a famous hero in the stories of my world. He was one of the Scoobies, the companions of the Slayer, and was known as the White Knight and the Defender of Mankind. In the original stories he was just a sidekick but in the later stories, written by fans, he became the mightiest hero of all, able to do almost anything, wise and multi-skilled and irresistible to women."

"Did you not identify yourself with the Slayer when you spoke to Delphine?" Jenassa remembered.

"I did," Rhiannon confirmed, "and, as I was a werewolf for a while, that would make me Oz too. You'd be Willow, except that you don't do magic, so maybe Spike, is it? And Delphine would be Giles."

"I would counsel against recruiting that man," Jenassa said. "I suspect that those three sailors are little other than pirates."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to do anything based on a coincidence of name," Rhiannon assured her. "It's cheered me up a bit, that's all. Once we've eaten, and sold off our loot, I should be feeling up to kicking the necromancer out of Meridia's temple."

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The first thing they saw when they entered the temple was a corpse. It wore Imperial armor, still relatively intact, but the body inside was horribly blackened and withered. A pouch at the corpse's belt had rotted away sufficiently to reveal the glint of gold coins inside.

"Do not ask me to take treasure from this place," Jenassa said. "I will not risk the anger of the dead."

Considering that Jenassa had shown no compunction about taking the valuables from the bodies of the bandits they had slain, sometimes even before they had stopped breathing, Rhiannon found her present attitude to be somewhat inconsistent. "I'm not thrilled about the idea myself," she said, "but we need the money and he doesn't have any more use for it. And if we're freeing them from undeath I don't think they'll object." She bent down and, grimacing, took the coin purse. "At least I don't have to drive a stake through his heart."

In order to proceed through the chambers of the ruined temple, and open the internal doors that Malkoran had sealed shut, they had to activate a series of refracting crystals that stood on pillars within the rooms. Meridia was projecting a beam of light that bounced from crystal to crystal and, each time it entered a new chamber, broke the seals and opened the doors. Straightforward enough, although it meant laboriously making their way through a series of corridors, and before long they encountered the first of Malkoran's corrupted shades.

These undead resembled skeletons wrapped in a shroud of darkness, floating above the ground rather than walking, armed with whatever weapons they had born in life. Some wielded swords, the Imperial gladius or the longer Stormcloak sword, some were armed with bows, and others swung war-hammers or battle-axes. All were tough opponents, who withstood several arrows or sword-strokes before melting into a puddle of ectoplasm, and both Rhiannon and Jenassa suffered painful wounds as they fought their way through the temple.

Healing spells and potions kept them going and Rhiannon noticed that she was becoming more proficient and able to keep the healing energy flowing longer. "I'm getting better at this," she remarked. "Just as well. We're running low on potions. I'll have to learn to make my own. Are you any good at… alchemy, is it?"

Jenassa shook her head. "Alas, no, sera," she said. "My poor attempts have resulted only in an unpalatable sludge. I have no affinity for any form of magic."

Rhiannon had seen Irileth using spells, very effectively, in combat and her reading had implied that the Dunmer were naturally talented at magic. Jenassa, Rhiannon decided, was a Squib.

"Maybe Delphine can teach me," she said. "She has an alchemy lab in her secret lair. And an enchanter's table. That's something else I'm getting better at. Next time I get a chance I'm going to put a flame spell on our bows."

"That would be advantageous," Jenassa agreed, "but for now we must make do with what we have."

Or perhaps not. One of the upper galleries held an enchanter's workbench and Rhiannon made use of it. A spell on her boots, enabling her to carry greater burdens, and the fire enchantment on both bows. "The more I do this, the stronger the enchantments get, so they do," she observed. "That must be what Ri'saad meant when he called that shonky mace an enchanter's practice piece. Enchant any old rubbish, just to build up your skills, before you work on the tidy stuff. I'll have to start doing that. These flame spells aren't all that powerful and, with only Lesser gems, they won't last all that long before they need recharging. Hopefully they'll last long enough."

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Rhiannon gasped as a jet of super-chilled air shot from Malkoran's fingers and enveloped her. The cold was like nothing she'd ever known, making the Ice Bucket Challenge seem like a hot shower, and she could feel her muscles seizing up. Somehow she kept going, the magic resistance from the Savior's Hide armor protecting her just enough, and with what seemed like her last reserves of strength she drove both her swords into the necromancer's chest.

Malkoran went down, blood bubbling from his mouth, and the swords pulled free. Rhiannon sagged on her feet, barely managing to keep herself upright, and forced herself to turn around. Two of Malkoran's shade bodyguards were still fighting Jenassa. Rhiannon straightened up, with an effort, and forced herself to move. With each successive step the cold-induced weakness in her muscles eased and she could move faster.

Not that Jenassa needed her aid, it seemed. The Dunmer swordswoman deflected a war-hammer blow with her right-hand sword, sending the weapon harmlessly past her, and with the left-hand blade she cleaved through the shadowy skull of the other undead being. She brought her right-hand weapon around and completed the destruction of the corrupted shade and then turned to devote her full attention to the one wielding the hammer.

"Dragonborn, look out!"

It was Meridia's disembodied voice, urgent and commanding, and Rhiannon whirled around to see a fresh shade rising from Malkoran's corpse. It extended its hands toward her in the unmistakable gestures of spell-casting and Rhiannon, too far away to strike it with her swords, threw herself sideways in a rolling dive that took her out of the line of fire and back onto her feet.

The spell wasn't frost this time; it was lightning. Bolts of electrical energy, far more powerful than Rhiannon's Sparks spell, shot forth from the shade of Malkoran and passed through the space where Rhiannon had been an instant before.

And struck Jenassa.

It must have been like being hit by several Tasers at once. Jenassa went rigid, sparks danced along the blades of her swords, and her hair stood on end. Then she dropped to the ground and lay convulsing in obvious agony. Her undead opponent raised its war-hammer to deliver a finishing blow and Jenassa was helpless to defend herself or evade.

There was no time for Rhiannon to reach her in time, or to change over to her bow, or even to snatch her axe from her belt. None of her small repertoire of spells were powerful enough to stop the corrupted shade before it could strike. There was only one option.

"FUS RO!"

Her target wasn't the shade, as she doubted that the semi-corporeal being would be affected enough to drive it away from its helpless prey; instead she aimed her Shout at Jenassa and sent the Dunmer woman skittering away across the floor to crash into a heap of desecrated corpses. The war-hammer blow missed, striking sparks from the stone floor where Jenassa had lain, and the shade seemed to stumble in mid-air and then rotated through a complete circle as if baffled as to where its victim had gone.

Rhiannon turned back to Malkoran's shade and hurled herself at it, both swords flailing in an attack that relied on fury more than technique, blades of fire and ice slicing through the wraith-form and causing it to collapse in on itself and dissipate. Then she whirled about, in terror lest the other shade had renewed its attack upon Jenassa while she dealt with Malkoran, but found that it was heading directly for her. She brushed aside its hammer-blow and lashed out with her left-hand sword in a strike that cut the shade in half at the waist. The two halves melted and poured down onto the floor, the hammer fell with a clang, and at once Rhiannon rushed to her fallen companion.

Jenassa lay unmoving and Rhiannon's heart was in her mouth as she stooped and poured healing magic into the still form. Then Jenassa stirred.

"Uurgh," she groaned. "What hit me?"

"I'm sorry!" Rhiannon gasped out. "I Shouted you away. I didn't know what else I could do."

"This time, sera, I will thank you at once," Jenassa said. "I saw the hammer poised above me and thought that my doom was certain. You saved me."

"Meridia saved us both," Rhiannon said. "If it hadn't been for her warning…"

"Had I not warned you then you would have perished, Malkoran would have continued to exist betwixt life and death, and the cleansing of my temple would remain incomplete," Meridia said. "But you have done well, nonetheless, and the defiler is defeated. When you take Dawnbreaker from its pedestal I shall transport you back to my shrine."

Rhiannon took a step toward the pedestal, at which Malkoran had been standing when they entered the chamber, and then reconsidered. "Loot the bodies first," she muttered to herself, and proceeded to gather up coins from the desecrated corpses and weapons from the puddles of ectoplasm where the corrupted shades had fallen. She went to the body of Malkoran last and was struck by his resemblance to Alan Rickman, as Hans Gruber, in _Die Hard_. The necromancer's face was frozen in an expression of surprise that matched that of Gruber as he fell from the Nakatomi Plaza to his death.

"Happy trails, Hans," Rhiannon quoted, as she took a pouch of coin from the late Malkoran's belt. "I hope you don't have a brother who'll blow things up, all over Skyrim, in a complicated plot to combine getting revenge on me with stealing a cowing great heap of gold."

"A great deal of what you say is meaningless to me," Jenassa said. "Do you quote from a play again?"

" _Die Hard_. One of our most famous plays, it is," Rhiannon replied. "Although not quite as famous as the one this comes from." She went to the pedestal and took hold of the hilt of the sword set into it. "Beam us up, Scotty."

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It was the worst Christmas ever. A travesty of a celebration. They had tried to get on with their lives but it was impossible. There was a great gaping hole in their lives that couldn't be filled. Was not knowing what had happened to their daughter worse than if she had died? Sometimes they felt that it was, and at other times they thought that at least they still had hope. Although, with every day that passed with no news, that hope seemed fainter.

The Christmas tree stood in a corner of the room, their half-hearted attempt to decorate it making it seem even more desolate, the Amazon-wrapped presents from Cerys still lying unopened beneath it because they hadn't been able to bring themselves to open them.

She wouldn't have been with them for Xmas dinner anyway, as her schedule didn't allow enough time off to fit in flights both ways across the Atlantic, but she'd been going to link up with them on Skype for a video chat. Now all they had was the photos of her that stood on the mantelpiece flanked by a depressing mixture of Christmas cards and ones expressing sympathy and condolences.

Tom Morgan, who had wrestled under the name of Gareth the Dragon, picked up the wishbone from the chicken carcass and held it out to his wife. Carrying on the traditions of Christmas, going through the motions of normality, in this season of good cheer despite good cheer being conspicuous by its absence. He was heavier than he had been in his wrestling prime, thicker in the waist and no longer as agile, but still broad in the shoulder and strong. Strength that was, in these circumstances, of no help whatsoever.

Cerys' mother Bronwen hesitated and then hooked her finger around the wishbone. She tried to summon up a smile but it didn't reach her eyes. She gave the wishbone a desultory tug, as Tom pulled back, and the bone snapped leaving the larger section in Bronwen's grip.

"I wish we knew what had happened to Cerys," she said.

"Wish granted!" an unknown voice called.

Tom snatched up the carving knife and looked around. "Who's there?" he growled, but there was nobody else in the room. He pushed back his chair and stood up.

"A perfect opportunity!" the voice continued. "Admittedly this won't be quite the way I was supposed to deliver the message, and Akatosh will be furious, but what did he expect from me? And isn't the saying 'Show don't tell' anyway?"

"What…?" Tom began, but his voice cut off as the couple vanished from their seats at the dining table. The pieces of wishbone fell to the table. On the TV the Queen's Christmas message played to an empty room.

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"A new day is dawning," Meridia proclaimed. She had raised Rhiannon high into the air, possibly as high above the ground as High Hrothgar was above Ivarstead, and was hovering in front of her in the form of a pulsating sphere of light.

Rhiannon, despite her unusual position, couldn't help chuckling. "New Day rocks," she agreed, quoting the slogan of the WWE tag-team of that name. She wasn't a big fan of their act, especially the annoying gimmick with the trombone, but the crowd seemed to find it amusing.

"An odd expression," Meridia said. "but I sense that you meant it as approval. The new day, as you put it, 'rocks'. My light has returned to Skyrim. Take the mighty Dawnbreaker and with it purge corruption from the dark corners of the world. Wield it in my name, that my influence may grow."

"That doesn't mean I have to worship you, does it? I'm not sure I can do that. Not that I'm not grateful for you saving my life, and all, but I'm not into worship. _If you ask the church, then I'm an unbeliever. Spend Sundays asleep, I'm just another dreamer_ ," Rhiannon said, quoting Rudimental.

"It matters not. The plant cares nothing for the rays that bring it the warmth of the sun. As you carry Dawnbreaker, so shall my light touch the world. Farewell."

Rhiannon felt herself start to descend. "Wait on!" she called. "Can you send me back to my world? Jenassa could wield Dawnbreaker just as well as me, I'd bet."

Her descent halted. "Alas, no," Meridia said. "That is something outside my sphere of control. I cannot fulfil your request. As you have served me well, Dragonborn, I shall aid you one more time as some small measure of compensation. On leaving this shrine turn and go up the slope, for some one hundred paces, and there you will find something to your advantage." After speaking those words Meridia returned Rhiannon to the platform in front of her statue.

Jenassa hastened to join her. "To see you rising so far up into the air was disconcerting," she said.

"Well, it's quite a view from up there, it is," Rhiannon said, "and I trusted her not to drop me. Pointless, that would be, after she saved my life. And she says that if we go a hundred paces up the hill we'll find something useful."

It was a Word Wall. One of the glyphs on the wall lit up as Rhiannon approached. She read the word as 'Su', meaning 'Air', and recognized that it was part of a Shout called 'Elemental Fury'. It would enable her to wield her swords with greater speed, for a short time, giving her an edge in combat; although first, of course, she would have to kill yet another dragon.

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HEDDLU GOGLEDD CYMRU – NORTH WALES POLICE

Gogledd Cymru diogelach – A safer North Wales

News and Appeals

Update: Parents of Bethesda girl missing in America now also missing.

A search is under way for Thomas Morgan, 56, and Bronwen Morgan, 55, after friends reported that their home in Bethesda was empty with the TV on and the remains of a Christmas dinner still on the table. The couple's daughter Cerys, a professional wrestler with the WWE, was reported missing in Philadelphia on 14th December and the American police have so far failed to locate her. The investigation into the whereabouts of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan is proceeding with police underwater divers conducting searches of sections of the river Ogwen. Members of the public who have any information regarding the couple should contact North Wales Police on…

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"So the dragon you slew had laid waste to Granite Hill?" said the young Jarl. "Unfortunate. Such a tragic waste of human life. And no more taxes coming in. Oh, well, it's only a small part of my, that is the Hold's, revenue."

Rhiannon would have like to Shout the pathetic excuse for a Jarl off his throne and across the room, possibly following up by giving him a tour of Suplex City, but the trouble it would cause wasn't worth the momentary satisfaction. She kept her mouth shut.

"And I hear that you've made quite an impression on the common rabble," Jarl Siddgeir went on. "Even that dour and depressing priest, Runil, seems a little less gloomy thanks to you recovering his lost journal."

Rhiannon couldn't help smiling at the mention of Runil. Not due to the Elven priest himself, he was a worshipper of the God of the Dead and town undertaker – with a small 'u' – and so wasn't the most cheerful of people, but because his name was so similar to 'Rúmil' from _The Lord of the Rings_. She was reminded of the 'Return-verse' fanfics, in which Rúmil was a central character and had married Dawn Summers, although Dawn would never have married his elderly and unattractive near-namesake in this world.

"It's a pity that you haven't done anything about the bandits in Embershard Mine," Siddgeir said, "but I suppose one can't expect everything at once. You've fulfilled the conditions that I set," he confirmed, "and so I grant you the right to purchase property in the Hold. I am informed that there's a prime plot of land available, just off the road to Riverwood, and a house built there would give you a pleasant view over Lake Ilinalta. Have a word with my steward if you're interested."

A house in that location might have been convenient, Rhiannon thought, but a plot of land with no house was useless to her. "I'll think about it," she said.

"And, by my right as Jarl, I hereby name you Thane of Falkreath," Siddgeir proclaimed. "Congratulations. It's mainly an honorary title, of course, but there are a few perks. For a start I'm inviting you to a banquet I'll be hosting tonight. You can regale us with the tales of your adventures, I'm sure they'd be enthralling, and perhaps entertain us with the song I'm informed you performed for the rabble in the tavern last night."

"I'm afraid I won't be able to accept," Rhiannon told him, feigning a regret she didn't feel. She had a horrible suspicion that Siddgeir would use the occasion to make a pass at her, a prospect that made her skin crawl, and she'd sung _Let It Go_ for the patrons of Dead Man's Drink, after a couple of tankards of mead, only as a quick way of making herself 'known throughout the Hold'. "I have to set off for Riverwood at once. The Greybeards gave me a mission to carry out and I need to get started without further delay."

"Oh, that is a shame," said Siddgeir. "I might as well cancel the banquet, then. Still, no doubt there will be other opportunities. Do hurry back. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. I present you with this weapon from my armory, to serve as your badge of office, and I hereby appoint Rayya to be your Housecarl."

Rhiannon managed to keep her face impassive but felt like wincing. She hadn't expected Siddgeir to have a candidate already picked out and, perhaps naively, had thought she'd be able to get him to regard Jenassa as her Housecarl in the same way as Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun had done. Now she was going to be saddled with a stranger, who was likely to report back on her to Siddgeir, and who'd have to be kept in the dark about Delphine's secrets. This would be… awkward, to say the least.

"Rayya! Where is that woman?" Siddgeir called. "Nenya! Where in Oblivion is Rayya?"

The Steward of Falkreath, a High Elf woman with golden skin, golden hair, and golden eyes, emerged from a room at the side of the Jarl's hall. "You sent her to Riften to bring you a case of Black-Briar Reserve," she reminded the young Jarl. "She isn't due back for at least another two days."

"Oh, yes," said the Jarl. "Blast. You'll just have to wait for your Housecarl, then."

Rhiannon suppressed a sigh of relief. "That's not a problem. It might be a while before I can get back to Falkreath," she told him, inwardly resolving to stretch that 'while' out as long as possible, "but I can wait until then. You can… assign her to me when I return."

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"I hope it's a long time before I see that… _twll tin_ … again," Rhiannon said. "He reminds me of Tyler Breeze, except that Tyler is just a role that Matt Clement plays and Matt is a decent bloke when he's out of character. Jarl Siddgeir is… _dim gwerth rhech dafad_."

"I take it that is an uncomplimentary term," Delphine said. "Don't bother to translate. I'm well aware of Siddgeir's faults. But unless you intend to return to Falkreath there seems little point in you having devoted considerable effort to becoming a Thane there."

"I'm pretty much incapable of turning down a shot at a title," Rhiannon confessed, "even one that doesn't really mean much. And I expect I will go back to Falkreath eventually, especially if I'm supposed to run around this country fighting dragons." She sighed, "I hope I don't have to do any more of that any time soon. I've done enough running these past few days to wear even Mo Farah out. If we hadn't found a load of stamina potions, in a bandit camp, I'd never have been able to do it." She glanced across at Jenassa. "And I'd guess Jenassa feels the same way."

The Dunmer woman nodded agreement. "Indeed so, sera. More so, perhaps, for it was I who had the greater need of stamina potions." She turned her gaze upon Delphine. "I pride myself upon my endurance but Rhiannon outmatches me. She can run further and faster than I can."

"I've got longer legs," Rhiannon said, "and my mum was a distance runner. Third best in Wales, she was, behind Angela and Susan Tooby. She never quite made it into the Great Britain team but she did compete for Wales in the 1986 Commonwealth Games." Thoughts of her mother suddenly filled her head and she felt tears pricking behind her eyelids. She tried to blink them away, not entirely successfully, and picked up her cup of tea.

"I'm afraid I'll be asking you to do more running around Skyrim," Delphine said, "and there will, most likely, be dragon-slaying involved."

Rhiannon sipped at her tea. It had been brewed by Delphine, using Rhiannon's tea-leaves, and served in a pottery cup instead of the pewter goblet Rhiannon had been using previously. It hadn't registered on her at the time but the goblet had imparted a slight metallic flavor to the tea. This cup, free of that taint and with the addition of a little milk from Delphine's pantry, was almost as nice as if her mother had made it for her back home. Tears welled up in her eyes again and she realized that her hand was trembling. Hastily she set the cup down before she spilt the hot liquid.

"Are you all right?" Delphine asked.

"I'm just… missing my home," Rhiannon said, fighting to keep her voice level. "I've missed Christmas. That's our… midwinter festival," she added, as she saw Delphine's look of blank incomprehension. "And I was going to get together with some of the other girls and go to see _Star Wars: The Force Awakens_. We'd been waiting for it for months and I've missed it."

"Midwinter festival? But it is Last Seed," Delphine said. "Midwinter is four months away."

"Not where I come from," Rhiannon said.

Delphine shook her head. "I won't ask you to explain," she said. "I suspect I would be left none the wiser." She broke off for a moment, sipped at her own cup of tea, and then continued. "I don't know if there is any way to return you to your own home. If the Divines brought you here, to fight the dragons, then it is possible they might send you back once they are defeated – but I can make no promise to that effect."

"I asked Meridia to send me back," Rhiannon said, "but she said she couldn't."

"I wouldn't mention your little adventure with Meridia to anyone else," Delphine cautioned her. "The Vigilants of Stendarr are adamantly opposed to any dealings with the Daedra and they might even attack you if they found out about it."

"The Vigilants of Stendarr? Who are they?"

"An order of holy warriors dedicated to Stendarr, god of mercy and justice," Delphine explained. "They see it as their duty to stamp out Daedra worship, even of relatively benign Daedric Princes like Meridia and Azura, and they can be over-zealous in their pursuit of that objective. If they recognize your sword, and your armor, as being of Daedric origin they may try to take them from you."

"But… Dawnbreaker is purpose-made for killing those draugr things, it is," Rhiannon protested. "Why would they have a problem with that?"

"I know it isn't logical," Delphine agreed, "but it's the way they think."

"Well, they can't have it," Rhiannon said. "It's mine and it's cowing lush. It balances just right and it holds its charge great. The swords I enchanted myself lose their charge quicker than an iPhone 6."

"Hopefully it won't arise," Delphine said. "I didn't recognize it, and I'm fairly knowledgeable about legendary weapons. And I've seen a picture of the Hero of Kvatch wearing the Savior's Hide and it doesn't look much like the version you're wearing. If you do get questioned about them, say you took them from a dead bandit. That might be a good enough answer to get them to drop the subject."

"I'll do that," Rhiannon said.

"But now I'd better get back to business," said Delphine. "I need you to come with me on a special mission."

"Getting that Horn of Jürgen Klinsmann thing for the Greybeards, is it?"

Delphine frowned. "You mean Jurgen Windcaller. No, I'm afraid I need you to do something else first. While you were off in Falkreath and Haafingar I was following up on some information about the dragons and I've learned something… disturbing. You know there have been no dragons in Skyrim for centuries, right? Most of them were killed in the Dragon Wars, millennia ago, and the rest were killed by my predecessors, one by one, in the centuries that followed. Now they're back. And I've found out that they're not just coming to Skyrim from somewhere else; they're the dead ones coming back to life."

"Back to life, is it? They can raise the dead here? I didn't know that," Rhiannon said.

"They can't," Delphine said. "I've never heard of any conjurer or necromancer who can bring people back as fully aware, thinking, beings. Dead Thralls are the closest and they're not really self-willed. But maybe dragons are different. Or the Thalmor have created some new, more powerful, spells that can fully resurrect dragons."

"What makes you think the dragons are coming back to life, then?" Rhiannon asked.

"I know they are," Delphine said, "because I've been visiting their ancient burial mounds and found some of them empty. And I've figured out where the next one will be rising and we're going to go there. We'll see how it's being done, you can kill the dragon, and hopefully we'll be able to see how they're being raised and work out how to stop it happening again."

"You make it sound so simple," Rhiannon said, "but there's no way I can kill a dragon on my own."

"I will fight alongside you, of course," Delphine said, "and no doubt so will Jenassa."

"Indeed so," Jenassa confirmed. "I will stand at Rhiannon's side against any foe."

What Rhiannon really wanted to say was 'I don't want to fight a dragon because I'm frightened'. The thought of facing another of the huge, fire-breathing, creatures sent a cold shiver down her spine. But the confidence of the other two women, and the trust they were placing in her, made it impossible for her to voice her fears and doubts. You didn't let your tag-team partners down. She tried another tack.

"If the dragons come back to life, won't it be a bit… pointless me killing them?"

Delphine shook her head. "If you kill them, or at least are close by when they are slain, you take their souls," she said. "I'm pretty certain that will rule out any possibility of bringing them back again. Anyway, we have to try."

Rhiannon remembered the devastated wreckage of the little hamlet of Granite Hill. "I suppose you're right," she said. "So, where are we going?

"Eastmarch Hold," said Delphine. "A little mining town called Kynesgrove."

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It wasn't what Rhiannon would have called a town. She'd pictured something the size of Tregarth, just next to Bethesda, which had been built to house workers from the nearby slate quarries and which had a population of about 1,000. Kynesgrove's population probably didn't even reach 100.

A track led uphill from the 'town' – hamlet, more like – to the mine and smelter where almost all the inhabitants, apart from a few farmers and the staff of the inn, worked. Delphine led them up the track, past the mine, and further up the hill. They reached a point where they could see, ahead of them, a stone structure set into the ground. Three concentric rings of stone slabs, rising slightly above the surrounding ground, with a flat circular area, like a lid, in the center.

"It's still closed," Delphine said. "Good. We're in time. It shouldn't be opening until mid-morning tomorrow, according to my calculations, but I wasn't totally certain of their accuracy. Some of my estimates of when the others opened were based on unreliable reports." She looked up at the sky. "It's getting late. I don't fancy spending the night out here, when it's likely to be unnecessary, so we might as well go back down to the inn and get a room for the night. We'll come back here after breakfast."

"I've seen one of these before," Rhiannon said. "Not far from Bloated Man's Grotto, when we were checking out what had happened to Granite Hill. It looked just like this one, and you say this one hasn't opened yet, but a dragon had pretty much erased Granite Hill from existence before we fought it on the road between Falkreath and Riverwood. Are you sure this one is still closed? Or could the dragons be coming from somewhere else?"

"I've seen ones that have opened," Delphine said, "and that disc in the middle had collapsed down into a hollow. The difference is plain to see. And the dragons don't necessarily attack in the same vicinity as where they appear. The one you fought could have come from fifty miles away from that burial mound. And there were a lot more dragons, back in the days of the Dragon Cult, than just the ones that were buried in the mounds. There could be dragon remains in a lot of places, besides the ones shown on the Dragonstone, and those dragons could well be coming back to life too. I've no way of knowing."

"You're the expert," Rhiannon said. "I'll take your word for it."

Delphine took out her map and unfolded it. "Great Henge," she said. "That would be the one you saw, I believe. I can't predict when that one will open. There are too many possibilities, after this one, for me to tell which way the pattern will go." The map jerked in her hand and, simultaneously, Rhiannon felt a raindrop strike her face. Delphine folded the map up hastily and stashed it away. "It's starting to rain," she said. "Let's get inside and come back tomorrow."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"What's this filthy Dark Elf doing here?" the young man growled. "Bad enough that we have to put up with Dravynea the Stoneweaver without more of the gray-skins stinking up our town."

"Leave her alone, Little Kjell," the innkeeper called from behind the bar. "Those ladies are paying customers."

"We don't need that kind of customer, mama," said the young man. "They should go back to Morrowind. Skyrim is for the Nords."

"I was born in Skyrim, fool," Jenassa responded with acid in her tone.

Delphine put a hand on Jenassa's arm. "Calm yourself," she advised. "Do not rise to his baiting. To be thrown out of the inn would be extremely inconvenient."

She was cautioning the wrong person. Rhiannon's lips were compressed into a tight line and her eyes were blazing. She rose to her feet. "Apologize to Jenassa," she ordered, "and then leave us alone. Or I'll hurt you."

Delphine groaned and covered her face with her hands.

The young man took a step backward, and for a second it seemed that he was going to comply, but then his face hardened. "You don't look so tough," he said. "I'll bet I could take you."

"Kjell, no!" the innkeeper cried. "She's a mercenary. She'll kill you."

Again Kjell quailed slightly, and took another step back, but once more he recovered his nerve. "She wouldn't dare use her sword," he answered his mother, and then turned back to Rhiannon. "My pa runs this town," he said. "He owns the inn and the mine. If you draw a weapon on me you'll be in big trouble."

Rhiannon unbuckled her sword-belt and handed it to Jenassa. "No weapons," she agreed. "Now you either apologize to Jenassa, or you fight me. Which will it be?"

"I'm not going to apologize to a filthy gray-skin," said the young man; teenager, rather, Rhiannon realized. His weather-beaten complexion had made him look older at first glance, to Rhiannon's eyes, but a second look revealed that he suffered somewhat from acne. The childish petulance in the way he had spoken to her, and his use of 'mama' when addressing his mother, also pointed to him being younger than he first appeared. Sixteen or seventeen, eighteen at most, Rhiannon would guess. "You need to learn respect," he went on, "and I'm going to teach you that lesson."

Kjell was shorter than Rhiannon, probably about five foot eight or nine, but quite stocky of build. It was likely that he engaged in hard manual labor, and he'd be stronger than the average teenage boy of twenty-first century America, but Rhiannon wasn't in the least worried. Even if he was stronger than her it wouldn't help him at all. "Bring it on, boyo," she challenged, advancing toward him. "Hit me with your best shot."

"Kjell, don't do it!" his mother ordered.

He ignored her. "You asked for it," Kjell said, and swung his right fist in a clumsy blow.

Rhiannon caught his wrist, twisted it, grabbed his arm with her other hand as well, and wrenched him around and down. She swung her left leg up and over his arm, brought it down, and used it to force him further down until he lost his footing and ended up face-down on the floor. Rhiannon sat down on his back, with his arm between her legs, and heaved his straight arm up and back in Becky Lynch's 'dis-arm-her' version of the seated Fujiwara arm-bar submission hold.

Against a really strong man, like Cesaro or some of the larger male wrestlers in the WWE, it might not have worked. Kjell wasn't even remotely in that league. In seconds he was groaning in pain and his struggles to get free were futile. "Let me go, you bitch!" he demanded.

"Only when you submit and apologize," Rhiannon told him.

A young girl had been watching from behind the counter of the inn. She was only about five feet two, and her body shape was only beginning to show the curves of a woman, and Rhiannon guessed her age at perhaps thirteen or fourteen. The girl came out from behind the bar and approached.

"Serves you right for throwing me into the goat pen," she told Kjell, with a wide grin on her face. "Maybe you'll learn that you can't just push people around because they're girls."

"You can apologize to her, as well, while you're at it," Rhiannon said. She wrenched his wrist around still further and leaned back to put still more pressure on the arm.

"I yield! I yield!" Kjell cried out. "I cannot best you!"

Rhiannon eased back on the pressure, very slightly, but didn't release. "And apologize," she prompted.

"I'm sorry, Froa," Kjell said, almost in a whimper. "I won't do it again."

"And now to Jenassa." Kjell hesitated and so Rhiannon intensified the pressure again.

Kjell yelped. "I am sorry, lady Dunmer," he gasped out. "I will bother you no more."

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon. "See that you don't." She eased off on the pressure but kept hold of his arm, as she stood up, and did not release her grip until she was clear of any attempt he might make to strike back at her. He made no such attempt and simply climbed to his feet and stood rubbing his shoulder.

"Can you teach me to do that?" the teenage girl asked. "My brother pushes me around," she shot a fierce glare at the young man, "and I'd love to be able to get my own back."

"It would take a very long time," Rhiannon said. "I started training when I was about your age and I'm twenty-seven now." She sucked in her bottom lip as an idea occurred to her. If she couldn't get back to Earth, and once this thing with the dragons was over, she'd need to find some kind of job. Being a mercenary, or a bandit hunter, didn't appeal to her – she'd prefer something that didn't involve killing people – and she didn't have the knowledge base for most other mediaeval-type trades. But she'd already considered training as a likely post-wrestling career, if she didn't get her break in mainstream movies or television, and it might be a viable option here too. Something to consider for the future.

"You could teach me a few things now, couldn't you?" the girl pleaded.

"Not enough to do any good," Rhiannon said, shaking her head, and dismissing the uncharitable thought that she could get the girl up to the standard of a couple of the WWE Divas in twenty minutes.

"But you could at least teach me something," the girl pleaded.

"I'm sorry," Rhiannon replied, "I won't be here long enough. I'll be leaving in the morning." She saw relief on the face of the young man, and possibly a flash of triumph, and suspected that he might take his resentment at his defeat out on his sister once she had gone. "I'll be back," she added, as a deterrent, and managed to resist the temptation to say it in a Schwarzenegger voice. "I might teach you a few moves then."

"Ooh, that would be great," said the girl. She looked as if she was going to say more but Rhiannon turned her back, and returned to her table, and the girl gave up and headed back toward her mother at the counter.

"That was, perhaps, unwise," Delphine told Rhiannon.

Rhiannon shrugged. She saw the young man head off back to the bar, still rubbing his shoulder, and heard his mother start to berate him for being an idiot who deserved the lesson he had received. "The thought of facing a dragon tomorrow… scares me," Rhiannon confessed. "That fight – if you can call it a fight – made me feel better. More confident. It reminded me that, to quote Chris Jericho, 'I'm the best in the world at what I do.' I just hope that also applies to fighting dragons."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The immense black dragon flapped its wings and hovered above the burial mound. Rhiannon tried to nock an arrow but her hands were shaking too much to complete the task. She abandoned the attempt, lowered her bow, and flattened herself against the rock she was using as cover. She glanced across at her companions, hoping that they had not noticed her nervousness, and watched as both of them loosed arrows at the dragon. Arrows which failed to reach their target.

"Talos, just how big is that thing?" Delphine exclaimed. "I misjudged its height badly."

Rhiannon was reminded of the scene in _Father Ted_ in which Ted was trying to explain perspective to Dougal, with the aid of some toy cows, and despite the seriousness of the present situation a smile came to her lips and she almost broke into a chuckle. Her hands stopped shaking and she was able to take control of her voice.

"That's the dragon that destroyed Helgen," she told Delphine. "It just ignored everything the garrison fired at it. I don't think it's worth you trying any more arrows."

"You may be right," Delphine conceded. "What's it doing here?"

The air above the burial mound began to shimmer and swirl as if a twister was forming. The big dragon banked, flew in a descending spiral around the mound, and then resumed its hovering at a lower altitude. It spoke several words in a language Rhiannon didn't speak, then raised its voice and Shouted, and an energy wave burst forth from its huge maw and struck the central disc of the mound. The stone plate shattered.

"This is worse than I thought," Delphine muttered.

"No kidding," Rhiannon agreed, as the head of another dragon rose up from the open mound.

The new, much smaller, dragon seemed somehow… incomplete. Most of the body was covered by scales but in a few areas the skeleton was showing through. The wings were ragged and tattered. Then sparks of golden light began to swirl around the partially skeletal creature, whirling in toward its body, and the incomplete sections seemed to rebuild themselves. The process resembled, in reverse, the way the dragon at the Western Watchtower had disintegrated as its soul had streamed into Rhiannon. Even before the re-assembly was complete the dragon had begun to speak to its larger relative.

" _Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?_ "

The huge one replied in, presumably, the same language. " _Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir._ " It then pivoted in the air to face Rhiannon and spoke again. " _Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi_." The only word Rhiannon understood was 'Dovahkiin'. The dragon seemed to recognize her lack of comprehension and switched languages.

"You do not even know our tongue, do you? Such arrogance, to adorn yourself with the image of a Dov, and to take for yourself the name of Dovah. You deserve death." It turned back to face the newly risen dragon, which by this time was fully restored, and spoke in an unmistakable tone of command. " _Sahloknir, krii daar joorre_." With that it soared higher into the air and away. In moments it was disappearing into the distance.

And the other dragon was launching itself into the air.

Delphine and Jenassa were already loosing arrows at the beast. Rhiannon nocked an arrow, successfully this time, and joined in. She missed; the other two didn't, but their arrows had no visible effect. Then the dragon wheeled, dived, and belched out a jet of searing flame aimed downward at the three women.

Delphine and Jenassa scrambled out of the line of fire, narrowly avoiding the flames, and took cover behind the rocks that bordered the road. Rhiannon chose a different method of evasion; she Shouted "WULD" and used her Whirlwind Sprint ability to move fifty feet away in the blink of an eye.

The dragon went past, its fiery breath scorching a trail along unoccupied ground, and then wheeled around and slowed to a hover. "Your Voice is strong… for a mortal," it told Rhiannon, "but no match for mine. You cannot evade me for long."

An arrow struck its underside and sank in to about half the length of the shaft. Rhiannon hadn't seen whether it had been fired by Delphine or Jenassa but she could hear Delphine shouting.

"We have to bring it down!" Delphine yelled. "We've got to ground that bastard." Another two arrows struck home almost simultaneously. The dragon flapped its wings vigorously and zoomed upward and away.

"Skyrim belongs to the Nords!" The war-cry sounded as two guards in Stormcloak armor raced up the path from the village. One bore a shield, and brandished a war-axe, and the other aimed a bow up at the dragon overhead.

Rhiannon followed suit and, as the dragon wheeled around and came back, she tried to allow for the moving target and loosed an arrow. It struck home under the dragon's jaw and bit deep.

"Well shot," Delphine called. Of course she didn't know that Rhiannon had intended to hit the dragon in the belly and had drastically over-estimated the angle by which she needed to lead her target. Delphine's own arrow went through the membrane of one of the wings and Jenassa put an arrow into the dragon's hindquarters. The Stormcloak loosed and missed.

On this strafing run the dragon didn't breathe fire; instead a stream of super-cooled air shot out of its mouth. Rhiannon's ability to Shout hadn't recharged yet but she launched herself into a series of handsprings and flips, hurtling out of the target zone both rapidly and unpredictably, and the icy blast missed her. The bow-armed Stormcloak was less fortunate, or less nimble, and the cold breath struck him directly. Nords had a natural resistance to cold, Rhiannon had learned, but the dragon's breath must have been as cold, or colder, than the frost spell Malkoran had used against her in Meridia's temple. The Stormcloak dropped his bow, doubled up, and fell to his knees.

The dragon glared at Rhiannon and growled out a phrase in its own language. Probably, Rhiannon thought, something along the lines of 'Nimble little minx, isn't she?' Then it descended and came in to land. It faced Rhiannon and, expecting it to breathe out more fire or ice at her, she cartwheeled aside out of the line of fire. The dragon growled again, turned away, and headed directly for Delphine and Jenassa.

The way the dragon moved on the ground, using the knuckles of its wings as front feet like a CGI pterosaur, looked clumsy but its sheer size made it fast. Delphine charged to meet it, her katana seeming to leap into her hand, and Jenassa drew her two swords and followed. The axe-wielding Stormcloak ran in from the side. The dragon swung its head and struck the Stormcloak a blow that sent the man flying back to crash to the ground. Then it turned its attention back to the two women.

Swords flashed and jaws snapped. Rhiannon had lost most of her arrows during her acrobatic evasive maneuvers and so she drew Dawnbreaker, unhooked the Axe of Whiterun from her belt, and started to run back to join in the fight. She had ended up quite a distance from the others and she was still a good twenty yards away when a blow from the dragon's snout knocked Delphine to the ground. Then the dragon's jaws opened wide and, ignoring the blows from Jenassa's swords, it struck like a snake and seized Delphine in its fanged maw. It raised its head, with her legs trapped in its jaws and her katana flailing to no effect, and shook her back and forth in an apparent attempt to disarm her before swallowing her whole.

Rhiannon gasped in horror even as she ran. She was too far away to reach Delphine in time… or was she? Her _Thu'um_ had recharged. And she knew all about using your momentum to increase the force of a blow... She extended her arm, holding Dawnbreaker out in front of her, and Shouted "WULD!"

She slammed into the dragon with an impact that felt like botching a Spear and ramming at full velocity into the ring-post. She bounced off, losing her grip on Dawnbreaker, and fell to the ground.

The dragon… howled. Its jaws opened and Delphine fell free. She landed on her feet but collapsed to the ground immediately, one of her legs buckling under her as if broken, and she ended up sitting on the ground pointing her katana up at the dragon.

Rhiannon tried to get to her feet but was too winded to perform her usual rapid spin-up. She pushed herself up with her hands and made it to her knees just as the dragon lunged at her. She could see the hilt of Dawnbreaker sticking out from the base of the beast's neck, just in front of where the wing joined the body, driven in all the way up to the cross-guard. It had to be badly hurt and the attack was slower and more awkward than the lightning-fast strike it had made at Delphine. Rhiannon swung her axe and connected with its snout. The dragon recoiled but then struck once more and knocked the axe out of Rhiannon's hand. Before she could draw her spare sword the dragon opened its jaws to deliver a final, killing, bite.

"Die, dragon!" Jenassa had climbed to the top of a rock and now she hurled herself from that vantage point in a leap onto the dragon's head. She thrust down with her swords, aiming at the beast's eyes, as she landed. Her left-hand blade was deflected by the bony ridge above the eyes and skidded off, harmlessly, across the scaly skull. The other struck precisely on the dragon's right eye and pierced deep. The dragon reared up, raising its head high, and Jenassa slipped backward and only stayed on her perch by releasing her left-hand sword and clinging onto the right with both hands.

And then the dragon flopped down like Kevin Nash receiving the infamous 'Fingerpoke of Doom' from Hollywood Hogan. Its neck thrashed across the ground for a couple of seconds and then it lay still. Jenassa regained her footing, wrenched at her sword, and pulled it free. The dragon didn't react and Rhiannon knew that it was dead.

At once she rushed to Delphine. The older woman's right leg was red with blood and her face was contorted with pain. "Are you…" Rhiannon began, then realized that asking if Delphine was all right would be stupid and corrected herself. "Is your leg broken?" she asked instead.

Delphine shook her head, laid her katana down, and clutched at her thigh. "One of its fangs seems to have gone through my thigh muscle," she said. She held her hand over the wound and cast a healing spell.

"You should retrieve your sword, sera Rhiannon," Jenassa advised. "We do not know what might happen to it when the dragon burns." She turned away and began to search the ground for her fallen left-hand sword.

"Good point," Rhiannon said. She took a couple of steps toward the dragon's body but at that moment a golden glow began to show from between its scales. Before Rhiannon could get to the hilt of Dawnbreaker the dragon soul was streaming out, surrounding Rhiannon in a nimbus of golden light, and being absorbed into her being. The corpse broke up and disintegrated, leaving behind a skeleton, a few loose scales and bones, and an undamaged Dawnbreaker.

"You took its very soul!" exclaimed one of the two Stormcloaks. He was supporting the other, the one who had been struck by the dragon's blast of cold breath, with one arm and with the other he was helping his comrade to drink a healing potion. "And you used the _Thu'um_. You're… Dragonborn!"

"Uh, yes, I am," Rhiannon confirmed. She was caught off balance, still trying to deal with the rush of energy from the dragon soul, and for once she regretted not having a scriptwriter for moments like this. Should she act as if she was doing a promo for WWE, and make a big announcement, or would that be stupidly overdramatic when she was speaking to only two people? Briefly she considered appropriating Buffy's 'One girl in all the world' speech' but perhaps that would sound a little too boastful. She decided not to bother saying anything more and went to pick up the fallen Axe of Whiterun.

"Dragonborn," the other Stormcloak, standing straight and apparently now recovered from the effects of the dragon's breath, addressed her in awed tones. "It is said that you will bring an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes. No doubt you will go to Windhelm and aid Ulfric Stormcloak in driving out the corrupt Empire, and the treacherous and vile Thalmor, from Skyrim."

"My job is to fight the dragons, it is," Rhiannon said. "I can't get tied up with anything else."

"But you could help our cause so much," the Stormcloak pleaded.

"Who else can fight the dragons?" the other one pointed out. "We would have perished, without felling the beast, had the Dragonborn and her followers not been here. I have heard that dragons have attacked Helgen, and Whiterun, and several farms, and now here in Kynesgrove. They must be stopped."

"They must, indeed," Delphine said. She had risen to her feet and had an empty potion bottle in her hand. She flexed her right leg, testing its movement, and seemed satisfied. "And we must depart from here, at once, in furtherance of that objective."

"Are you up to traveling?" Rhiannon asked. "That wound was a bad one."

"I had a Potion of Extreme Healing," Delphine told her. "Between that, and my Healing Hands spell, I'm more or less as good as new. It might be an idea to stop off at the inn, though, so that I can get this blood cleaned off. Otherwise we'll be fighting off wolves and sabre cats, attracted by the smell, all the way from here to our destination."

"If your mission is urgent we will not delay you further," the Stormcloak axe-man said. "May Talos guide you, Dragonborn… and your two companions also."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"I never expected it would be a dragon raising the other dragons," Delphine said. They had left Kynesgrove and were out on the road, with no-one else within sight, and she felt it safe to talk freely. "I was sure it would be the Thalmor."

"Who are the Thalmor, anyway?" Rhiannon asked. "You've mentioned them before, and I know they're Elves, but that's all. Elf Necromancers, is it?"

"They're the faction that rules the Aldmeri Dominion," Delphine explained. "They were behind the Dominion's attack on the Empire that led to the Great War. They took the Imperial City, and held it for a while, but were driven out eventually. But they'd weakened the Empire so much that the Emperor signed the White-Gold Concordat as part of the peace deal. That gave the Thalmor the power to station agents throughout the Imperial provinces, including Skyrim, enforcing the ban on the worship of Talos. And it outlawed the Blades."

"Who are the Blades?"

"Originally we were a dedicated order of dragon hunters, sworn to the service of the Dragonborn," Delphine related, "but once the dragons were all gone, and the last of the Dragonborn Emperors died in the Oblivion Crisis, we became the bodyguards and special agents of the Emperors that followed. But the Thalmor have almost wiped us out. I might well be the sole survivor. If there are any other Blades still living they must be hiding out, in secret, the way I've been doing for the past twenty years."

"So you're the last of the Blades, then," said Rhiannon. "Does that mean you're… sworn to my service, is it?"

"I wouldn't put it that strongly," Delphine said. "It's two hundred years since the last of the Septims died and we transferred our loyalties to the next dynasty of Emperors. But Titus Mede sold us out to the Thalmor and made that allegiance void. I'm on your side, now, and I'll help you all I can. That doesn't mean I'll always obey your orders."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Rhiannon said. "You're the expert. And I'm used to being part of a team but not to giving orders. I had to follow the script, as an actress, and it was the same in the WWE." She fell silent for a moment, considering what Delphine had said, and then another thought occurred to her. "Why did you think it would have been the Thalmor raising the dragons?"

"They're the ones who stand to gain by it," Delphine answered. "Think of what happened when the first dragon turned up. The Imperials were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak. That would have ended the insurrection and brought Skyrim firmly back into the Empire as a unified province. The Thalmor would hate that. They want us weakened. And what happened? A dragon turned up, disrupted the executions, and in the confusion Ulfric escaped. The Civil War is back on. Only the Thalmor benefit from that."

"I can see why you think that," Rhiannon said, "but it turns out a dragon is doing it himself."

"It could be that the Thalmor raised that big bastard in the first place," Delphine suggested, "and he learned from that how to do it for the other dragons. Even if that's not the case I'll bet the Thalmor know something. They have the best intelligence network in Tamriel. If we could get access to their secret files…"

"That would be impossible," Jenassa put in. "They will be held at their embassy and that is far too well guarded. Any attempt to penetrate it would be suicide even for us."

"I don't know," Delphine mused. She gazed at Rhiannon as if assessing her. "You are an actress. That opens up… possibilities. I have the beginnings of an idea. I'll need some time to work out the details. We'll continue on to Ustengrav, for now, and by the time we've retrieved the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller I might have come up with a plan."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon slashed through the spider-webs that covered the exit. They shriveled up at the touch of Dawnbreaker's fiery blade and the way was clear. Through the doorway Rhiannon could see a stone causeway between two long rectangular pools of water and, beyond that, a raised plinth on which stood a sarcophagus.

She glanced back at the room behind her. A true chamber of horrors. The entrance had been rigged with pressure-plate traps, releasing jets of flaming gas when triggered, and beyond that had been the giant spiders. Two the size of the Dudley Boyz and one much bigger; almost as big as Shelob, in _The Return of the King_ , and just as terrifying. All three lay dead now, of course, but that was mainly down to Jenassa and Delphine. Rhiannon had to admit that, when it came to fighting spiders, her technique deserted her and she was reduced to flailing her swords wildly. Luckily her cooler-headed companions, who seemed to be free of the visceral horror Rhiannon felt for arachnids, had disposed of the creatures quickly and efficiently.

And now, it seemed, the end of their quest was in sight. The layout of this room seemed to indicate that it was the final chamber and, therefore, the resting place of the Horn. Rhiannon advanced, warily and with an arrow nocked, and the other two followed behind her.

As they descended a flight of stone steps, leading to the causeway, they heard a loud rumbling noise. The water in the pools swirled and was broken by four objects rising and breaking the surface. All three women stopped, and took up the tension on their bows, but relaxed as they saw what was causing the disturbance. Four stone statues, stylized figures representing dragon heads, resembling the figureheads of Viking longships. They rose up into clear view, standing some ten feet out of the water and looking down over the causeway, and then stopped.

"Damn, that's quite a sight," Jenassa remarked.

Rhiannon had to agree. She was, however, learning that things in these Nord ruins were rarely harmless. "Just wait," she said gloomily. "They'll spit fire at us when we go past."

They didn't. Instead two draugr appeared, from concealed sarcophagi at the far side of the room, and advanced to attack the intruders. One brandished a two-handed sword and the other wielded a war-axe and wore a shield. They came on in single file, along the narrow causeway, and the leading one made for Rhiannon. She used her left-hand sword to deflect its sword stroke and rammed Dawnbreaker through its chest. That draugr collapsed immediately; as it slid limply from the sword that impaled it a pulse of energy exploded outward from the enchanted blade and set the other draugr ablaze. It flailed around in apparent confusion for a moment and then stepped off the causeway into the water. If it sought to put out the flames it was out of luck; the pool proved to be only knee deep.

Delphine didn't wait for the fire to do its work but lashed out with her katana and decapitated the undead creature. It fell into the water and there was a hissing sound as the flames were extinguished.

"Those would seem to be the final guardians," Jenassa said, "unless something lurks within that sarcophagus ahead. And, if I am not mistaken, there is the horn that we seek."

A stone pedestal, in the shape of a human arm and hand, rose from the top of the elaborate sarcophagus. The carved hand held a wind instrument apparently made from a ram's horn.

"On past form," Rhiannon said, "the sarcophagus will open, as soon as I pick up the horn, and something much worse than anything we've faced so far will burst out and attack."

"I suspect you may be correct," said Delphine, "but if we surround it, with our weapons poised to strike, I am sure we shall prevail."

They ascended the steps of the plinth and took up positions around the sarcophagus. Rhiannon sheathed her left-hand sword but kept Dawnbreaker at the ready. Then, cautiously, she used her left hand to lift the horn from its mount.

Nothing happened.

"Well, that was a bit of an anti-climax," Rhiannon said, after several seconds had passed with no sign of anything springing out to attack them. "I was sure the quest would end with an end-of-level boss fight but I'm happy to be wrong. Now we just have to get out of here and trek all the way back to High Hrothgar to hand it over to the Greybeards."

She wasn't looking forward to the journey. She was weary, after negotiating the twisting and trap-filled passages of Ustengrav and battling past hordes of draugr, walking skeletons, and giant spiders, and also her period had started. The local equivalent of sanitary towels, made of cloth stuffed with a kind of dried moss, worked much better than she had feared and healing spells were an effective remedy for period pains. Even so, she'd have felt more comfortable, and much more confident, with the products she was used to on Earth. Certainly she felt no inclination to go swimming, or roller-skating, and she wondered if wolves might be able to pick up the scent of blood.

Delphine slid her katana back into its scabbard. "I suggest that we go to Solitude first," she said. "I need to see a contact there and it's the closest place where we can sell off the loot we've picked up in here. I had thought of going by myself, while you went off to High Hrothgar, but I'll have to go to Riften after Solitude and I might as well accompany you as far as Ivarstead. I'll carry on from there to Riften. There are things I need to arrange there, if my plan to penetrate the Thalmor Embassy is to work, and I'll do that while you're with the Greybeards."

"Riften is where the Thieves' Guild have their lair, is it not?" Jenassa put in. "I suspect a connection."

"A reasonable deduction," said Delphine, "but I will neither confirm nor deny anything until my arrangements are complete."

It made perfect sense to Rhiannon that Delphine would seek the assistance of a Thieves' Guild if she was planning to break into the Thalmor Embassy. It was harder to see where her own acting skills would come into play but no doubt Delphine would explain once she was ready to put her plan into operation. Rhiannon couldn't summon up the mental energy to press her on the matter right now.

"Should we have a look inside the sarcophagus?" she suggested. "We never found any of that dragon lore you were after. There might be something in there."

Delphine shook her head. "If that is the resting place of Jurgen Windcaller, I think we should leave him in peace," she said. "There's a door over there that I believe will lead to a way out of this place without our having to retrace our steps. Let's see if my guess is correct." She opened the door, keeping her katana at the ready, and led the way through.

They found themselves in a treasure chamber. Burial urns lined the walls, a large chest stood on a stone platform, and gold coins were scattered on the floor in front of the chest.

"It's probably booby-trapped," Rhiannon predicted, "or else empty." Neither proved to be true. It held several hundred gold coins and a few small gems. The coins differed from the septims with which Rhiannon had grown familiar, since her arrival in Skyrim, but Delphine assured her that they would be perfectly acceptable as currency. And, beyond the treasure chamber, they found a tunnel that led them through a concealed door into a room near the entrance to the barrow. A short time later they emerged into the open air.

And several hours later they arrived at the gates of Solitude. Night had fallen but the guard at the gate opened it for them with only the most cursory of challenges. They passed through and walked past the platform where the execution had been held. Rhiannon couldn't repress a shudder at the memory. She quickened her pace and led the way to the Winking Skeever inn.

"We'd like a room for three, please," Rhiannon requested, "and meals."

"I don't have a room for three," said the innkeeper, "but I can do you a double and a single." He took their orders for meals, passed them on to the cook, and then served them drinks. "I remember you," he told Rhiannon. "You were here on the day of the execution, am I right?"

Rhiannon shuddered again. "Don't remind me," she said.

"Sorry," said the innkeeper. "I remember, now, you were somewhat… distraught. I didn't mean to upset you again." He turned away and called out to the inn's resident bard. "Lisette, play something… uplifting."

The pretty blonde bard had been sitting at a table, sipping at a mug of ale or mead, and talking with an attractive dark-haired young woman. At the innkeeper's words she set down her mug, stood up, and picked up her lute from beside her chair. "Very well, Corpulus, you're the boss," Lisette said.

It occurred to Rhiannon that Lisette looked rather like The Boss. Somewhat paler in complexion, with a slightly smaller nose, and with hair of a pale ash blonde instead of being dyed a flamboyant shade of pink, but in other respects she did bear quite a resemblance to Sasha Banks. Of course, to the best of Rhiannon's knowledge, Sasha couldn't play the lute.

"This one is a favorite of mine," Lisette announced. "A legend we all know and love." She strummed the lute and began to sing.

" _Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart.  
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.  
With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art.  
Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.  
It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes.  
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.  
For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows.  
You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come_."

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This chapter is dedicated to the memory of Christina Grimmie. May she sing and play in Sovngarde.

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English meanings of Welsh phrases:

 _* twll tin_ = asshole

 _* dim gwerth rhech dafad_ = not worth a sheep's fart

English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

 _* Alduin, thuri! Boaan tiid vokriiha suleyksejun kruziik?_ = Alduin, my Overlord! Has the time come to revive the ancient realm?

 _* Geh, Sahloknir, kaali mir_ = Yes, Sahloknir, my trusted ally.

 _* Ful, losei Dovahkiin? Zu'u koraav nid nol dov do hi_ = So, my false Dragonborn? I do not recognize you as a dragon.

 _* Sahloknir, krii daar joorre_ = Sahloknir, kill these mortals.


	8. Don't Split The Party

**Eight: Don't Split The Party**

"Change of plan," Delphine announced. "The next party at the Thalmor Embassy is too soon for me to get to Riften, set things up with my contacts there, and get back in time. You're going to have to do the job yourself."

"What?" Rhiannon's exclamation was loud enough to attract the attention of the other diners and to cause Jenassa to give her a reproving frown. Rhiannon waited until the people at the surrounding tables had lost interest, and returned to their meals, and then continued more quietly. "I can't do that," she protested. "Who do you think I am? Natasha freaking Romanoff, is it?"

"The alternative would be to wait a month for the next party," Delphine said. "We can't wait that long. There have been more dragon attacks and you're the only one who can stop them. Either you do it by running hither and thither around the country, dealing with them one at a time for the Divines know how long, or we find the source and deal with them once and for all."

Rhiannon pursed her lips. "I don't see how me getting caught and thrown in jail will help. Or executed, is it? Chopping off people's heads seems to be the standard around here. I'm not a spy or a thief." She gave a bitter little laugh. "I'm in the wrong story. I thought I was Genre Savvy, a fantasy fan in a Dungeons & Dragons world, and it turns out this is Mission Impossible and I'm Wrong Genre Savvy. You need Sydney Bristow but you got Red Sonja."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, as usual, but I'm used to it by now," Delphine said. "I wouldn't be asking you to do this if I wasn't confident you could succeed. The last thing I want is for the Dragonborn to be killed or captured by the Thalmor." She fell silent for a moment, as Lisette the Bard reached the end of the song that was providing cover for their conversation, and didn't speak again until another song had started.

"You've picked up the basics of stealthy movement from Jenassa and me, you've acquired a reasonable facility for lockpicking, and you're an actress," Delphine went on. "Ideal qualities, I would say, for the mission at hand. Not impossible by any means. And you're a talented acrobat and the most gifted bare-handed fighter I've ever seen. If anything goes wrong, and you need to make your escape, you have all the right skills."

"You were doing so well right up until you said that last bit," Rhiannon said. She sighed. "I suppose I'll have to do it. I wanted to be a champion and I'm stuck with it. So what do I have to do?"

"I'll get you inserted into the invitation list," Delphine said, "in the guise of a noble from High Rock recently arrived in Skyrim."

"With Jenassa pretending to be a maidservant, is it?"

"She won't be able to go with you," Delphine said. "The guests aren't allowed to bring servants with them. And no weapons or armor. My contact there can smuggle in a few things for you but nothing bulky."

"I like this not," Jenassa stated.

"I'm not wild about it myself," Rhiannon agreed. "Are you sure you're not trying to get me killed?"

"Certainly not," Delphine said. "You can do this. I have confidence in you. And I'll be providing five Potions of Extended Invisibility. Used judiciously they should get you safely past the guards with no need to fight."

"How long do they last?" Rhiannon asked.

"Thirty seconds each," Delphine said. "You'll need to use careful timing."

Rhiannon rolled her eyes. "So now I'll be Bilbo Baggins, is it?" she said. "I always saw myself more as Tauriel or, if I had to be a male Hobbit, Belkar Bitterleaf."

"I have no idea who they are," Delphine said, "but that reminds me. You'll need to come up with a false name that you'll easily remember. Using your own name would make you far too traceable afterwards. Think of one now so that I can provide it to my contact before we leave Solitude."

"Rhiannon is just my ring name, anyway, but I'd rather not use my real name," Rhiannon said. "I know! Hanna Heller would be perfect if I'm going to be Action Girl."

"Hanna is a Nord name," Delphine mused, "but you're too tall to be a pure Breton anyway and there are plenty of ethnic Nords in High Rock. A title to go with the name might be appropriate."

"Countess of Narnia," Rhiannon provided.

"Narnia is a place in your own world, I take it?" Delphine responded. "It will do. There used to be lots of little city-states in High Rock, before they merged into the Five Kingdoms, and it could easily be one of them. Better than using somewhere real and you bumping into someone who knows it well enough to pick holes in your story. I'll help you work out a background, enough to get by, on the way to High Hrothgar and back."

"We're still going, is it? I thought you said there wasn't time," Rhiannon said.

"I don't have time to go to Riften, but we can still get you to High Hrothgar and back if we keep up a good pace," Delphine said. "I suspect the Greybeards may reward you with something, perhaps another Shout, that will make the journey worthwhile."

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"You are ready to learn the final word of Unrelenting Force. 'Dah', which means 'Push'," Master Arngeir declared. "With all three words together, this Shout is much more powerful. Use it wisely."

Master Wulfgar advanced and Shouted a Word onto the paved floor. Rhiannon read the glowing letters, learning the Word, and then Wulfgar bestowed his knowledge of the Word upon her in the same way as Master Einarth had taught her the meaning of 'Ro'. This time they did not ask her to demonstrate her proficiency with the enhanced Shout by providing hologram practice targets. Instead Arngeir told her to stand between them while they formally recognized her as Dragonborn.

The four Greybeards stood at the sides of a square that was marked out on the floor. Rhiannon took up position in the center of the square and then they spoke. All four of them. As they spoke their unrestrained Voices struck Rhiannon with a force that felt like being body-checked from every direction at once. And she withstood it, staying on her feet, standing unharmed as the Greybeards chanted their way through three stanzas in an unintelligible language. At last they fell silent, the sonic battering ended, and they bowed to her. The three non-speaking Greybeards walked off, returning to their meditations, and Arngeir remained in the main hall.

"You have just tasted the Voice of the Greybeards, and passed through it unscathed," Arngeir announced. "High Hrothgar is open to you."

"What was that ceremony all about?" Rhiannon asked. "You were Shouting at me, is it?"

"We spoke the traditional words of greeting to a Dragonborn who has accepted our guidance," Arngeir explained. "The same words were used to greet the young Talos, when he came to High Hrothgar, before he became the Emperor Tiber Septim."

"I hope I'm not expected to become Emperor, Empress that would be," Rhiannon said. "I just want to get this dragon problem sorted and then, maybe, I'll be able to go home."

"That is in the hands of the Divines, if it was they who brought you here," Arngeir said. "I hope, for your sake, that it will happen but I can offer no assurances."

"I know," said Rhiannon. She shook her head. "With my luck I'll get back and then find that the Stamina potions leave traces and I'll fail a drugs test, get a thirty-day suspension under the WWE Wellness Policy, and be stripped of my title."

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As the elimination series to determine who takes over Rhiannon's Divas Champion title draws near its conclusion the WWE have announced that the new champion will become the first holder of a new WWE Women's Championship. The change had been scheduled to take place at WrestleMania 32, it was revealed, but the management decided to bring it forward because of the unusual circumstances behind the vacancy in the existing title position. The Divas Championship belt will be retired, with Rhiannon as the last ever holder, and the match to decide the new Women's Champion will take place on January 24 at the Royal Rumble.

ThatCulture: Wrestling News

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The carriage rumbled along the road that led from Whiterun to Solitude. A carriage in name only, Rhiannon thought; a wagon with no roof covering and only wooden benches around the sides to serve as seats. At least it wasn't raining, for the moment, and it did provide her with an unimpeded view of the tundra. She was traveling alone, Jenassa and Delphine having stayed behind, and sightseeing was a good way of occupying herself during the journey. Well, that and memorizing the plans of the Embassy, but there was a limit to how long she could study them at a stretch before her eyes glazed over. The wildlife was more interesting, especially… mammoths!

She had seen the huge beasts at a distance before but hadn't had the leisure to take a proper look. Now she could stare at them from the comfort – such as it was – of the carriage seat. If only she'd had her phone with her she could have taken photos, maybe a video clip, except that of course the battery would have died long before.

If she'd had time to prepare for her transportation to Skyrim she could have brought a proper camera, or a GoPro, although it wouldn't have been her first choice. A machine-gun might have been useful, although she had no idea how to fire and maintain one, or at least a set of Kevlar body-armor. Of course the Imperials would have taken everything, when she was found and loaded in with the Stormcloak prisoners, and so it would have been pointless. She'd have ended up with little more than she'd brought anyway; the manicure kit, her bra and knickers, and her watch.

The watch was the only unique thing she had brought with her on this mission. All the rest of her identifiable gear was now in Delphine's Batcave in Riverwood; Dawnbreaker, the Savior's Hide, the Axe of Whiterun, even her little manicure set. Apart from her enchanted circlet, rings, and amulets everything she was carrying was generic, untraceable, and disposable.

On arrival in Solitude she was to purchase a set of clothes suitable for a noble from the high-class clothing shop Radiant Raiment, change into it, and sell off her armor and weapons. She would pass her magic items, potions, and lockpicks to Delphine's contact, to be smuggled into the Embassy, and then take a coach to the party with nothing but her clothes and non-magical jewelry. The watch wasn't magical, and might pass inspection, but it would be best not to take chances and to include it with the items to be smuggled in. If all went well the contact would pass them back to her once she was inside. If things didn't go well… she'd be dead.

She tried to set aside that gloomy thought and concentrate on watching the distant mammoths and their giant shepherds. Apparently the giant she had helped the Companions fight, as it raided a farm just outside Whiterun, had been an anomaly and usually they weren't a threat if you kept your distance and didn't bother their mammoths.

As it appeared someone, or something, was doing. Rhiannon heard a mammoth trumpet angrily, looked in that direction, and saw a giant raising his club and shaking it at something in the direction the wagon was heading. She followed its gaze and saw… a dragon.

And not just any dragon. It was the big, black, dragon that had attacked Helgen and that she had seen again at Kynesgrove. Wheeling in the sky, fairly low down, its attention seemingly concentrated on something on the ground below it. She recognized the place it was circling; the dragon burial mound that she had seen when she was investigating the wreckage of Granite Hill.

" _Mae hi wedi cachi arna i_ ," she muttered. "It must be resurrecting another one. Right beside this road."

At that moment the carriage driver saw the dragon and tugged on the reins. "Divines help us, it's a dragon!" he cried, as the carriage came to a halt. "I'm getting out of here!"

"Wait on!" Rhiannon called. She didn't want to face the dragon without back-up but she didn't want to be stranded out in the wilderness, alone and with minimal equipment, either. "I'll deal with the dragon." Not that she would stand a chance against the black dragon but, going by its behavior at Kynesgrove, it would bring back a smaller dragon and then fly off. And the giant and his mammoth were heading in the direction of the mound; she had no idea of the relative strengths of the monstrous creatures, and suspected the dragon's flight and breath weapon would give it the edge, but if the other two could hurt the dragon enough maybe she could finish it off.

The driver jumped down from the carriage but, instead of running away, he took hold of the horse's reins and stood waiting. "You're really going to fight the dragon?"

"It's what I do," Rhiannon told him, with more confidence than she felt. She readied her weapons and sought to summon up her courage. " _Girl of Harlech, off the wagon, You must go and fight the dragon_ " she sang to herself. It worked, at least to some extent, and she jumped down and headed off toward where the black dragon circled.

By the time she arrived the resurrection was well under way. The top of the burial mound had burst open and the skeletal form of the formerly dead dragon had crawled forth. There was a ring of ancient standing stones surrounding the mound, resembling a much smaller version of Stonehenge, and Rhiannon took cover between two of the upright pillars that supported a lintel slab. She peered out from her place of concealment and watched as flesh and scales grew over the skeleton. She looked for the giant and mammoth but saw no sign of them; either they had lost interest, and wandered away, or perhaps the magical whirlwind around the opening tomb had scared them off. Rhiannon felt pretty damn scared herself.

Crouching down, exposing herself as little as possible, she hoped that her Boots, Necklace, and Ring of Sneaking, given to her by Delphine, would keep the dragons from noticing her. It seemed to work. The two dragons spoke to each other, the conversation sounding to Rhiannon very like the one between the dragons at Kynesgrove, but this time the big dragon did not speak to Rhiannon and flew off without giving the other one the command, ' _Sahloknir_ _, krii daar joorre_ ', that she was pretty sure had been an order to kill her.

This put Rhiannon in something of a quandary. If she left the dragon alone it might attack the carriage; if she attacked it, without back-up, it might kill her. After hesitating for a minute or so it occurred to her that she was stuck here until the dragon went away. It wasn't showing any signs of moving off and so she gathered her nerve, drew back on her bowstring, took aim and loosed.

The arrow struck exactly where she had aimed it, sinking deep just behind where the wing joined the body, and the dragon bellowed in pain and shock. For a moment it seemed to freeze and Rhiannon was able to get off another arrow before her target moved. Again she scored a good hit and then the dragon launched itself into the air. She loosed one more shaft and hit it in the hindquarters, somewhat to her surprise, and then ducked back under cover.

She heard the flapping of the dragon's wings, and saw its shadow on the ground to each side of the stone, but it passed overhead without slowing to aim its breath weapon at her. The stone lintel had hidden her from its view. It came back for another pass, still searching for the archer who had wounded it, and again went directly overhead and Rhiannon saw only its shadow. Perhaps twenty seconds later she heard it Shout " _Yol Toor Shul_ " and that was followed, immediately, by a mammoth trumpeting in pain and fury.

Rhiannon peeked out and saw the dragon hovering in front of an angry mammoth and a furious giant. She deduced that, frustrated at not being able to locate her, the dragon had taken its rage out on the nearest creatures. And, without any ranged weaponry, the giant and mammoth had no way of striking back.

But she had. She bent her bow again and shot the dragon in the back. It wasn't the best target, as its scales were strongest there and the arrow bounced off without penetrating, but it did get the dragon's attention. It wheeled to face the source of the arrow and, in the process, lost some height. Its tail dangled down low enough to come within the giant's reach.

The twelve-foot humanoid grabbed the tail with one hand and heaved. The dragon resisted, flapping its wings mightily, but the giant swung its huge club and smote the dragon on the hip. The shock of the impact froze the dragon and, with its wings no longer providing uplift, the giant's pull brought it crashing to the ground. At once the giant fell on it with club blows and kicks and the mammoth charged to gore with its tusks.

The dragon fought back in a whirlwind of slashing claws and snapping jaws. Splatters of blood flew from all the combatants. Rhiannon was tempted to stay out of it, contenting herself with watching, but… the giant was sort of human, it was her fault the dragon had attacked it, and suppose the giant and mammoth lost? Then the dragon would be free to give her its undivided attention. She didn't trust her aim enough to fire into the melee without hitting her unwitting allies and, besides, she had very few arrows left. She slung her bow, drew her swords, and headed for the fight.

By the time she reached the combat the giant had gone down and the mammoth, bleeding from a dozen wounds and trumpeting in rage, fought alone. The dragon was in bad shape, its wings torn and its body battered, and it was limping badly. Rhiannon poised herself for battle and used a Shout; 'SU', the Elemental Fury word she had been guided to by Meridia, unlocked with the soul of the dragon slain at Kynesgrove. It was supposed to speed up her weapon strokes, giving her a huge edge in combat, and she fell upon the dragon from behind with her swords swinging.

At normal speed.

The Shout hadn't worked. For a moment she was startled, even shocked, and then she recognized the cause of the problem. She was using the swords she had possessed before she acquired Dawnbreaker, enchanted by herself with basic charms of fire on one and ice on the other, and the Shout counted as an enchantment. In this world you couldn't put a second enchantment on an item that already bore one. She'd have been better off, in these circumstances, using a vanilla un-magical sword. Too late to do anything about that now and all she could do was make a mental note for the future and rely on her own muscle and skill.

It was enough. The dragon, already badly injured, went down beneath her sword strokes and the goring of the mammoth's tusks. She stood still, panting from her exertions, as the dragon soul streamed into her. The mammoth backed away, obviously startled, and then went to where the fallen giant lay.

Rhiannon gathered up a couple of dragon scales and bones and retrieved a couple of arrows. She kept a wary eye on the mammoth, as she did so, but it ignored her and stood nuzzling the dead giant's body with its trunk and making low rumbling noises. Delphine had told Rhiannon that the big toes of a dead giant could be used to make some extremely valuable alchemical potions but she had no intention of trying to carve them from the corpse. Not only did the idea fill her with revulsion but there was no way she was going to get any closer to some seven tons of wounded and unhappy pachyderm. She would leave the mammoth to grieve in peace.

She used the dragon soul to unlock the meaning of the Word, 'Feim', that she had found in Ustengrav as she sought the Horn of Jurgen Windwalker. She discovered that it would allow her to become ethereal, and immune to damage, for a few seconds. Potentially very useful, she thought, especially if it would let her walk through walls. She'd try it out, before she needed to use it in an emergency, but not here and now. Once she'd recovered her breath, and packed away the dragon parts, she set off back to the carriage.

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The carriage from Solitude passed through the gates of the Thalmor Embassy and pulled up outside the main building. Rhiannon climbed down, refraining from the flamboyant leap that would have been her normal method of dismounting, and paused to smooth out her clothes. Even though she had only been in Skyrim for three weeks already she felt naked without her swords hanging at her sides.

The ground was covered with a thin layer of snow. Solitude was snow-free, perhaps because the wide river that ran past it had a warming effect, but the Embassy was further from the river and higher up in the mountains. Her breath condensed into clouds in front of her face and she heard the snow crunching under the feet of Thalmor guards as they walked past. There was something insectile about their greenish-gold armor and helmets, making them look alien and threatening, and the wizard who accompanied them wore hooded robes that were more like a Gestapo officer's trench-coat than the apparel of a friendly Gandalf-type.

The gates of the compound had been closed and locked behind her. Rhiannon felt acutely nervous but it was too late to back out now. She strode forward, trying to project an air of aristocratic confidence, and handed her invitation to the guard at the Embassy door.

"Thank you, ma'am, go right in," he said, and opened the door for her. Almost as soon as she passed through the door she was greeted by a tall Elven woman, even taller than Rhiannon's five feet eleven, clad in a hoodless version of the Gestapo robes. Facially the woman bore a distinct resemblance, Rhiannon thought, to a pointy-eared version of Kim Kardashian.

"Welcome," the Elf said. She had gone way overboard with eye-shadow, giving her eyes that any panda would envy, and her tawny-blonde hair receded at the sides of her high forehead to form a pronounced widow's peak that would have had any horror film director casting her as a vampire queen without a second's thought. "I don't believe we've met."

In fact, Rhiannon realized, she had seen this Elf before; with General Tullius, at Helgen, before the executions started and the dragon attacked. It was highly unlikely that the recognition would be reciprocated. Rhiannon then had been wearing nothing but underwear, with no make-up and her hair hanging loose, and now she was clad in the best local finery, she was made-up to the limits of Skyrim cosmetics technology, and she had put her hair up in a 1940s-style Victory Roll.

"I am Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim," the Elf went on. "And you are…?"

"Hanna, Countess of Narnia," Rhiannon replied, adopting the accent she would use if she was auditioning for a part as one of the aristocrats in Downton Abbey. "Pleased to meet you."

"Ah, yes, I remember your name from the guest list," Elenwen said. "Narnia? I'm not familiar with that land."

"It's part of Evermore now," Rhiannon told her, following the briefing Delphine had given her. "It was a kingdom in its own right, at one time, but was too small to maintain an independent existence indefinitely. Our detractors say that Narnia is scarcely bigger than a wardrobe." She gave one of those bright little 'aren't I being witty?' laughs and favored Elenwen with a beaming, but patently insincere, smile.

Elenwen's lips formed into an answering smile that was equally insincere. "Ah, one of those former city-states," she said. "And what brings you to this… to Skyrim?"

Delphine's contact Malborn, who was acting as a bartender at the party, tried to break into the conversation at that point. Delphine had given him instructions to do what he could to shield Rhiannon from awkward questions but, at the moment, Rhiannon felt that she didn't need any help. Better that the contact didn't draw attention to himself.

"Oh, I'm looking to expand my business interests in this direction," Rhiannon answered, "and I'll be attending Vittoria Vici's wedding while I'm here, of course. I heard this would be the best place to meet those who could be termed the 'movers and shakers' of Skyrim."

"Indeed," Elenwen said. "You should start with Thane Erikur. He, most definitely, is a 'mover and shaker'. That's him, in front of the fireplace," she gestured, "wearing the blue tunic trimmed with gilt. I won't detain you any longer." She turned away, toward the bartender, and revealed to Rhiannon that the Ambassador's resemblance to Kim Kardashian didn't extend to her backside. "Yes, what is it, Malborn?"

"Nothing, Madame Ambassador," Malborn replied. "A minor problem but I've managed to resolve it myself. I apologize for interrupting you."

"Don't bother me again unless the matter is of major importance," Elenwen said. Rhiannon had, by that time, walked off deeper into the room and Elenwen didn't bother looking for her. The Ambassador took a couple of steps in the direction of the fireplace but, at that moment, the door opened as another guest arrived. Elenwen turned around again and went to greet the new arrival.

Rhiannon didn't head for Thane Erikur; the last thing she wanted was to get into a conversation with someone who might see through her vague talk about 'business interests'. Instead she loitered near a table laden with food and drinks, helping herself to a portion of seared slaughterfish, and looked around the room. There was no sign of any pyramids of Ferrero Rocher and so she cast her eyes over the other guests.

Most of them were strangers to her but there were a few that she recognized. Jarl Balgruuf and his steward Proventus Avenicci, for a start, and – oh dear – there was Jarl Siddgeir. Rhiannon would have to stay well clear of them and hope that the hairstyle and the make-up would be enough of a disguise for them not to recognize her. At least on the second occasion when she'd met Siddgeir she'd been wearing the Savior's Hide and its extreme shortness had meant that he'd been looking, almost exclusively, at her legs.

A bard Rhiannon hadn't seen before, a very pretty dark-haired young woman, was playing a flute for the party guests. The tune was pleasant enough but not exactly lively. If Rhiannon had been attending as a bard, with no ulterior motive, she'd have been tempted to give the guests an enthusiastic rendition of Jessie J's _Sexy Lady_ to liven things up; this wasn't that sort of party, however, and she had no difficulty in resisting the temptation. She waited until a moment came when there was no-one near the bar and made her approach to Malborn.

He was a Wood Elf, with pointed ears, but otherwise looking nothing like Legolas. In fact, Rhiannon thought, he looked much more like Alexander Armstrong, the host of her favorite quiz show 'Pointless', which she watched every chance she got when she was in the UK. She shook off the momentary surge of homesickness and concentrated on the task at hand.

"What can I get for you?" Malborn asked, in a normal voice, and then went on in hushed tones. "You made it in. Good. As soon as you distract the guards I'll open this door and we can get you on your way. Let's hope we both live through this day." He went back to speaking normally. "Colovian brandy? An excellent choice," he said, and he poured out a drink into a silver goblet and handed it to her. "Let's hope we both live through this day," he added in an undertone, and then turned away to face an approaching guest.

Rhiannon walked away, not wanting to be noticed hanging around the bar, and wondered how she was going to create a distraction. Getting everyone to look at her would be easy; getting them to look in another direction would be much harder. Perhaps if she clipped someone's heel as they walked, at precisely the right moment, she could be half-way across the room before the victim crashed into a table laden with platters of food… or into Elenwen. Making people fall down, exactly where she intended, certainly was one of her skills but normally she wanted to be seen doing it. This would be tricky and her timing would have to be precise.

The sooner she could act, the better; the longer she was here the greater the chance that she'd be recognized by Balgruuf, Proventus, or Siddgeir and that her absence would be noticed after she slipped away. She took up a position against a wall and stood there, watching the room, and taking occasional very small sips of her brandy. Then, to her dismay, one of the guests made straight for her.

The guest was a tall young woman, perhaps an inch or so shorter than Rhiannon, and her hair was almost the same shade of red. She wore elaborate robes of red and light brown, trimmed with gold, with shoulder-pads of fine mesh mail that were too small and unsupported to serve any practical purpose in combat.

"Hello," the woman said. "I'm Jarl Elisif of Solitude, the widow of High King Torygg. We're very alike, aren't we?"

Superficially, perhaps, but Rhiannon wouldn't have said that the resemblance was close. Elisif was prettier, with classically Scandinavian high cheekbones and blue eyes, and thinner. Too thin, in fact, and those blue eyes seemed to Rhiannon to have something of a haunted expression.

"We are, yes," Rhiannon agreed, it being the simplest course. "I'm Hanna, Countess of Narnia, visiting from High Rock."

"You must come to the Blue Palace," Elisif invited. "I love your hair. Is it a new fashion in High Rock?" She took a deep drink from the goblet she held and Rhiannon suspected that it was by no means the first.

"Actually it's an old style," Rhiannon said, "but it's one I can do myself when I'm traveling without a maid." She hoped she'd be able to get out of this conversation before too long. It was useful, in a way, as she would blend in more if she was interacting with the other guests rather than just standing alone, but she couldn't risk being tied up for too long.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Elisif asked. "Elenwen really does have the most excellent taste." She took another drink and sighed. "My husband really enjoyed coming to these parties," she said. "I miss him terribly."

Rhiannon was still trying to think of the most tactful response to Elisif's remark when an occurrence at the other side of the room provided a distraction.

"Don't you dare walk away from me, you slut! Do you know who I am?" The blue-clad man pointed out as Thane Erikur by Elenwen was shouting at a Wood Elf serving girl.

"Please, sir, leave me alone," the girl pleaded.

"Now you're going to be sorry you crossed me. Elenwen! This servant girl has been throwing herself at me in a most disgusting manner."

Rhiannon had overheard a few snatches of conversation about Erikur, when she'd been in Solitude, and based on that she very much doubted if Erikur's claim bore any relationship to the truth. More likely the girl had turned down his advances. In other circumstances Rhiannon's inclination would have been to go over and intervene but that would be an extremely bad idea here. It might be the distraction she was looking for, however, if she could get rid of Elisif.

"Isn't he one of your Thanes?" she prompted the young Jarl. "Perhaps you could calm things down?"

Elisif swallowed. "He never does what I tell him," she said, nervously, as Elenwen went over and seemed to be taking Erikur's side. "None of my Thanes take me seriously. I wish Torygg was here. But, yes, I should do something." She took another drink and then headed for the angry Thane and the cowering servant.

Rhiannon at once took the opportunity to go back to the bar and Malborn. "I think we're clear," she said, setting down her barely touched goblet of brandy on the bar counter. "Let's do this."

Malborn scanned the room. "Yes, let's go, let's go, before anyone notices us," he said, and opened the door behind the bar. Rhiannon followed him through, into a small room lined with barrels and with shelves stacked with wine bottles, and Malborn closed the door behind them.

"So far, so good," Malborn said. "Let's hope no-one noticed us slip out. We need to pass through the kitchen. Your gear is hidden in the larder." He opened another door, at the far side of the drinks store, and led Rhiannon through.

In the kitchen a Khajiit cook objected to Malborn bringing a guest into what was, apparently, a forbidden area. The Elf silenced her by referring to something the cook did which also was against the rules and, cowed by this blackmail, the Khajiit dropped her objections and ignored the interloper. Malborn led Rhiannon into a small room, beyond the kitchen, in which were a number of sacks of vegetables and a large chest standing on the floor.

"Your gear is in that chest," Malborn said. "I'll lock the door behind you. Come on! If someone misses me at the party we're both dead."

"Take some bottles back in with you," Rhiannon advised, "then if you are noticed you were just topping up the party supplies. Act natural and no-one will query you." She opened the chest and began to don her gear, starting with her watch, and then the ring and amulet which would improve her ability to move stealthily. She fastened a pouch containing potions to her waist-belt and then sat down on the chest to pull on her Boots of Sneaking and a set of bracers enchanted to enhance her sword-wielding skills. Irrelevant at the moment, as she was unarmed, but they might come in handy later.

"I couldn't help noticing that you haven't brought any weapons," Malborn remarked. "I could find you a knife from the kitchen, perhaps?"

Rhiannon shook her head. "I don't need weapons," she said, and stood up. A thought struck her and she grabbed the least full vegetable sack, tipped its contents into the chest, and tucked the empty sack into her waist belt. "I'm good to go."

"Ah, a mage," Malborn deduced. "Watch out. The Thalmor have mages too and they're dangerous. I hope you know what you're doing. Good luck." He opened the last door and, as soon as Rhiannon had passed through, closed and locked it behind her.

Rhiannon was now in an empty corridor, a dead end, with doors leading off in each direction half-way along. She could hear voices from beyond the door that she would need to go through; Elven soldiers, discussing the dragons, and from what she heard it sounded as if the Thalmor were no wiser about the dragon attacks than anyone else. They seemed concerned about the possibility of a dragon attack on the Embassy itself and that implied that this whole mission was a complete waste of time and effort. It was too late to back out now, though, and there was always the chance that the higher-ups knew something that was beyond the security clearance of mere guards.

She gulped down a Potion of Invisibility and moved on, walking at a normal pace and trusting to her magic items to muffle any noise she might otherwise make, through the room and past the oblivious guards. In this world, unlike in Dungeons & Dragons, interacting with any object disrupted invisibility rather than the spell only breaking if you attacked someone. Opening a door, therefore, would be enough to make Rhiannon visible again. Luckily the door out of this room was around a corner from where the guards were standing and she was able to exit safely.

Beyond the door lay a snow-covered courtyard patrolled by Elven guards. The door itself was screened from the guards by a section of wall, quite possibly intended to shield the door from snow building up in front of it, but it provided Rhiannon with useful cover as she took a second invisibility potion and then set off for her next objective.

She had to get into a building called, according to Delphine's floor-plans, Elenwen's Solar. That was where any Thalmor classified documents would be kept. It also was where valuable items, such as would be targeted by a thief, were likely to be and Delphine had advised Rhiannon to steal anything in the way of gold or jewels that she happened upon. If the Thalmor thought that the documents had been taken as an incidental by-product of a conventional robbery they might pursue their investigation with less fervor than if they knew the theft had been specifically targeted. And, anyway, valuables were… valuable… for their own sake.

A path led around the outside of the courtyard. Rhiannon followed the path for part of the way and then cut across the open space heading for the door of Elenwen's Solar. A door that had a Thalmor wizard leaning on it.

" _Mae hi wedi cachi arna i_ ," Rhiannon exclaimed under her breath. There was no way she could get through the door without being noticed. She'd have to distract the wizard somehow – but how, when she was relying on being invisible? Perhaps if she found somewhere out of sight, threw a snowball onto a roof to trigger a fall of snow, and hoped the wizard moved away to investigate the sound? She moved away from her intended course, found a place of concealment around a corner of the building, crouched down and assessed the situation.

Just as the potion wore off, and as she was reaching down to gather a handful of snow, she heard a door open and then saw figures appearing on the path having come through the door she had used moments earlier. She backed away out of sight, took another potion, and then moved to where she could see again.

The new arrivals were a Thalmor soldier and the serving maid who had been the object of Erikur's rant. She was crying, and pleading for mercy, but the soldier ignored her pleas and merely frog-marched her along. Rhiannon realized that they were heading for the door of Elenwen's Solar and the wizard would have to move out of the way to let them through. She hastened across the courtyard, followed close behind them, and went through the door in their wake. The soldier turned back to shut the door, and she had to move aside smartly to avoid being touched by his reaching arm, but she made it inside whilst remaining invisible and undetected.

A guard inside, who was standing at the foot of a stone staircase, greeted the new arrivals. "What's this? One of the domestic staff been misbehaving?"

"Indeed so, Tanacar," the soldier replied. "This inferior wench annoyed one of Her Excellency's guests. She's to be… re-educated."

It would seem, Rhiannon thought, that any attempt by Elisif to defuse the situation had failed ignominiously. And 're-educated' sounded extremely ominous; workers mustn't have rights under the Thalmor, whose resemblance to the Gestapo seemed not to be restricted to the cut of their robes. Could she help the girl? Not right now, as taking on two armed and armored guards when she was weaponless and clad in party clothes would be foolish, especially as she could hear voices from elsewhere within the building; maybe later.

The voices were coming from the direction of the office where, according to Delphine's instructions, she was most likely to find the documents. There was no point in heading that way, for the moment, and so she hastened past the guard, and up the stairs, to get out of sight before the invisibility wore off.

"So she's to be subjected to Master Rulindil's ministrations, then?" the guard said, as she passed him. "He's busy with an informant at the moment but he shouldn't be long. He'll be conducting an interrogation once he's finished with the informant. She might find being forced to watch… instructive. Or perhaps he'll work on her so that the prisoner can see what awaits him."

"Please, sirs, I've done nothing wrong," the girl whimpered.

"You've displeased Her Excellency," the soldier holding her arm said. "That's enough."

Rhiannon had, by that time, moved far enough away that she could no longer make out the conversation. She had heard enough to make her profoundly angry, worried, and indeed frightened. The first part of this adventure had been exciting, almost fun, but this was bringing home to her how much danger she was in. Not just death, but torture. She gritted her teeth and carried on.

The upstairs rooms wouldn't hold anything confidential, she had been told, but they would contain valuable loot. She went through the rooms taking anything that looked worthwhile. Mainly potion bottles and a few gold coins, at first, but then she found the safe. She expected to have major problems opening it but, to her surprise, she discovered that it was unlocked.

Inside she found a sack of coin, a gold bar, and some jewelry that looked worth a lot of money. This made it even more surprising that the safe hadn't been locked. Perhaps, she guessed, the official downstairs had taken money from the safe to pay off his informant and had neglected to lock the safe afterwards. Hopefully he wouldn't come back to put away unused funds, and discover the looted safe, at least not until long after she had left.

She found little else in the room other than a few potions. After packing them away in her sack, wrapped in cloth to stop them clinking, she waited on the balcony, listening, until she heard the soldier who had brought the servant girl bidding farewell to his colleague and departing. The other guard resumed his station at the foot of the stairs and Rhiannon drank another Potion of Invisibility. She descended the stairs and paused, behind the guard, to listen to the sounds from the office that was her target.

It seemed as if the business being transacted there was drawing to its end.

"Now, I have work to do. Leave me to it, if you ever want to see the rest of your payment," said a voice in the cultured tones of a Thalmor official. Master Rulindil, presumably. In the background Rhiannon could make out the serving girl still whimpering.

"Can I… I could help you," said another voice, its accent much more working-class. "He'd talk to me. He trusts me."

Rhiannon guessed that the room would become vacant soon but she couldn't stay where she was any longer or the potion would expire. She set off for the room at the other side of the entrance hall, silent and presumably unoccupied, but she still heard the rest of the conversation.

"You'd like to come downstairs with me, and this unfortunate wench, is that it, Gissur? Shall we untie his bonds and put you in a cell together? You can ask him anything you like and see how he answers."

"No, no. I'll… I'll wait outside."

"That would probably be best. Now get out!"

By that time Rhiannon had reached the other room, which indeed was unoccupied, and there she found a glass-topped display case. Inside she saw two gold circlets set with gems and a matched pair of daggers with gilded and bejeweled sheaths. It was locked, unsurprisingly, and she set to work with lockpicks. Whether by luck or by skill she managed to get the lock open in a very short time, breaking only two of the slender iron picks in the process, and she added the circlets to the collection of valuables in her vegetable sack.

The daggers went on her belt; at last she was armed, although her knife-fighting knowledge came mainly from her lessons in sword and main-gauche dual-wielding. It was a pity, she thought, that the Circus Skills course she had taken as part of her Performing Arts degree hadn't included knife-throwing. That would have come in very handy in this world.

She found a few other pieces of saleable loot in the room, nothing exceptional, and then moved back toward the entrance hall. There was no longer any sound coming from the other office and it should be empty now. Only one of her Potions of Extended Invisibility remained and she wanted, if possible, to hold it back for an emergency. She had another invisibility potion but it was one that she had made herself, using the little knowledge of Alchemy she'd managed to acquire from Delphine and from a book called _Herbalist's guide to Skyrim_ , and a test had shown that it would last for only about ten seconds.

That might be long enough, at least to enable her to take a look without risking being spotted, and she drained the bottle and then peered around the door. She was just in time to see the guard ascending the stairs and passing out of sight. At once, seizing the opportunity, she headed for the other office, choosing her route so that she'd be out of the view of an observer on the balcony if the potion wore off as she was crossing the hall. Her precautions paid off and, although the potion did wear off before she reached her destination, she remained unseen and no alarm was raised.

Master Rulindil the interrogator, and the captive serving girl, had departed and the office was empty. This was where she should find the confidential files. She saw a desk on which lay two rolls of paper, an ink bottle, and a quill pen. On the floor behind the desk was a chest. She opened it and… jackpot! A large key and three bound journals. Each had a title page. One read _Thalmor Dossier: Delphine_ , the next was _Thalmor Dossier: Ulfric Stormcloak_ , and the third, which was mainly blank pages, was titled _Dragon Investigation: Current Status_.

This wasn't the time, nor the place, to read them. They went into her sack. She felt a sudden impulse, almost as if a voice in her head was prompting her, to take the writing materials as well. Something in her subconscious, perhaps? She couldn't quite see the point but maybe they'd come in useful and they weren't heavy. Into the sack went paper, pen, and, once she had checked that it was firmly sealed, the ink-bottle. The only other things in the room of any use were a couple of potion bottles. She added them to the sack and was ready to leave.

At the far side of the office was a doorway opening onto a wooden staircase leading down. At the foot of the stairs a locked door, reinforced with riveted iron plates, barred the way to the Interrogation Chamber. Rhiannon guessed that the key she had found in the chest might well belong to this door; she tried it and found that her guess was correct. She opened the door, went through, and emerged onto a balcony overlooking a large, sparsely-furnished, room with a bare wooden floor.

A floor stained, in all too many places, by splatters of blood. A rack sat in the middle of the room, an actual Inquisition-style torture rack, with a table beside it that was cluttered with ominous pointed and hooked instruments. Part of the room was divided into cells, or cages, of iron bars. Between where she stood and the cages was a desk and sitting there, with his back to her, was a Thalmor mage. He held a quill pen poised over a sheet of paper.

Beyond him, in the nearest cage, a Thalmor soldier stood in front of a man who was shackled to the wall. The prisoner was speaking.

"Stop. Please. I don't know anything else," he pleaded. "Don't you think I'd have told you already?"

"Silence! You know the rules," the soldier commanded. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Master Rulindil will ask the questions."

"Let's begin again," said Rulindil.

"No… for pity's sake… I've already told you everything," the prisoner said.

"You know the rules," Rulindil said, calmly and dispassionately, and the soldier delivered a jab to the prisoner's stomach with the head of his mace, driving the breath from his victim's body. "Start at the beginning, as usual," Rulindil continued, after a short pause. "If you persist in this stubbornness we'll see if another session on the rack can loosen your tongue. Or perhaps the hot irons, hmm?"

"No, wait!" the prisoner gasped. "I was just… catching my breath. Why wouldn't I tell you again? I don't even know anything... There's an old man. He lives in Riften. He could be this Esbern you're looking for, but I don't know. He's old and seemed kind of crazy. That's all I know."

Rhiannon had no idea what the questioning was about but she decided that she couldn't let the torture go on. A movie hero might burst into the room and demand a halt but that would result in a lone fight against a soldier and a wizard. Jenassa, Rhiannon was sure, would creep up behind the wizard and slit his throat before going for the soldier. Rhiannon doubted if she could bring herself to do that… but she was twelve feet above the wizard, she was Rhiannon the Dragon, and she had few peers in the art of wrestling's aerial moves. She stepped up onto the rail of the balcony, crouched as she gauged the distance carefully, and leapt.

If she had misjudged her jump she might well have broken a leg. She didn't miss. Her feet struck the wizard's shoulders, to each side of his head, and the impact snapped bones and slammed his head down onto the table hard enough to flatten his nose and break his jaw. Rhiannon dropped the rest of the way to the floor, rolled as she landed, and came straight back up onto her feet totally unhurt.

"What the…?" the soldier exclaimed, rushing out of the cage. He raised his mace but Rhiannon acted before he could strike. She seized his arm, swung him around, and rammed him head first into the bars of the cage. They were much more solid and unyielding than the turnbuckles of a wrestling ring and, despite his helmet, the soldier was dazed and sagged at the knees. Rhiannon slammed him into the bars again, and a third time, and he collapsed and lay still.

Rulindil was staggering to his feet by this time. His face was a mask of blood, his nose was a squashed ruin, and his arms hung limply at his sides. He spat out teeth as he tried to speak and whatever he was trying to say was unintelligible. Unable to cast spells, or to use a weapon, he was helpless. The one thing he could do to harm her would be to run off and summon help. She couldn't let him do that but she couldn't bring herself to kill him either. Luckily she had another option open to her.

"Dragon… whips her tail," she said, and moved forward into the right position for her most spectacular finishing move from the WWE. Even if Rulindil's arms had been working it was unlikely he could have reacted quickly enough to defend himself as Rhiannon whipped her left leg up and around in a spinning heel kick, the one Bruce Lee had used in the classic scene from _The Way of the Dragon_ , and knocked Rulindil from his feet and dropped him unconscious on the ground.

In movies and TV being knocked unconscious was a trivial thing. In real life, as Rhiannon was well aware, things were very different and any WWE wrestler who had taken one of those kicks full strength, and been knocked out, would have been rushed off for medical checks and treatment. Rulindil, already possibly crippled for life from the effects of her dropping on him, might well suffer permanent brain damage or even death from the kick. Somehow Rhiannon couldn't bring herself to care.

She turned and went into the nearest cage. Inside it the torture victim was shackled to the wall by his wrists. He was a wiry young man, of medium height, with long tawny hair and stubble on his chin. He wore only a grubby pair of trousers and his bare torso was covered in bruises. Quite good-looking, if he'd been cleaned up, but this was hardly the time or place for thoughts along those lines.

"I told you, I don't know anything else about it," the captive muttered weakly. It seemed that he hadn't noticed Rhiannon taking out his interrogators.

"I'm not one of those Thalmor _mochyn_ ," Rhiannon assured him. "I'm rescuing you." She opened the second shackle and the prisoner collapsed on the floor. She gave him a quick burst of Healing Hands and he raised his head.

"Thank you," he said, his voice clearer now. "Who are you?"

"Hanna, Countess of Narnia," Rhiannon replied, deciding to stick to her alias until she was well clear of this place. "Who are you?"

"Etienne Rarnis," the man replied. "They grabbed me in Riften. They seemed to think I know something… but I don't. We have to get out of here." He got to his feet, somewhat laboriously, but his legs gave way under him as soon as he took a step. Only a grab at the bars of the cage saved him from falling flat on his face.

"I think you need more healing," Rhiannon said, and cast her spell again, for a longer duration this time. She knew something about the damage to joints and tendons caused by over-stretching, having been out of action for three months after suffering such an injury wrestling in Germany, but she had no idea how effective the Restoration spells of Skyrim would be in treating them. Better than Earth medicine, it would appear, because by the time she ran out of Magicka Etienne seemed to be able to move normally and his bruising had faded almost completely.

"Thanks, and thanks for springing me," he said. "Look me up in Riften if we make it out of here. I've seen guards dumping bodies through a trapdoor over there," and he pointed. "It might be a way out. It has to lead somewhere."

Rhiannon was glad to hear it; she'd been wondering how she would get back through the rest of the building, and then the courtyard, with only one invisibility potion remaining and at least one, probably two, other people accompanying her. She didn't want to be stuck inside in the Embassy indefinitely like Julian Assange. "Wait a minute," she advised him. "Make sure you can move freely. And, uh, see if there's anything on that guard you can use. I think there's another prisoner I'll need to rescue."

"The Bosmer girl they brought in just before you appeared? She's a couple of cells along, I think," Etienne said.

He was correct. The serving girl was shackled in the next cell but one, in a similar fashion to Etienne, but she still was fully dressed and didn't appear to have been beaten or tortured so far.

"Please, don't hurt me," she begged, as Rhiannon opened the door of the cage. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"I'm not here to hurt you," Rhiannon said, and unfastened the shackles.

"Thank you," the Elf girl gasped. "I don't understand what's going on. They were going to torture me just for rejecting that horrible Erikur's advances. I can't stay here but I've nowhere else to go."

"She can come with me to Riften," Etienne suggested, from behind Rhiannon. "It's a Stormcloak city, so the Thalmor aren't welcome, and nobody there cares what race you are. I would think you could find a job there without too much trouble and, even if you couldn't find work anywhere legit, a serving wench would brighten up the Ragged Flagon no end. And Sapphire and Vex would cut the balls off any man who wouldn't accept that a girl has a right to say no."

"Thank you," said the Elf. "You're very kind."

Rhiannon left them to talk and checked out a chest that stood nearby. She found a pouch of gold and a necklace. She handed them over to the Elf girl. "These might keep you until you find a job," she said, and then she passed the coin pouch that she'd found in the safe to Etienne. "And this will help you get to, uh, Riften. Did you find anything useful on the… dead guard?"

"A sword and a dagger," he replied. "I've never used a mace and I can't get my feet into his boots. Too narrow. The armor's never going to fit on me, either. But I'll get by."

Rhiannon spotted another chest, past where Rulindil lay unconscious and badly injured, and near a brazier on which a branding iron was heating. "I'm going to check that chest out," she said. Before she did so she was struck by a thought and searched Rulindil's body. He was carrying two spell scrolls, a spell book, a couple of potions and a dagger. One of his fingers bore a ring that looked as if it might be magical and, grimacing as she touched his skin, she pulled off the ring and pocketed it. Then she moved on to the chest. It held only one item; another bound journal with a title page reading _Thalmor Dossier: Esbern_. She added that to her sack and turned back toward where Etienne was struggling, without success, to open the trapdoor he had mentioned.

And then a voice spoke from the balcony above.

"Listen, spy," it said, in the same Thalmor accent as Rulindil. "You're trapped in here and we have your accomplice. Surrender immediately or you both die."

"Never mind me, I'm dead already," she heard Malborn say.

There was the sound of a fist striking flesh and the Elven voice snapped "Silence, traitor! Well, spy, are you giving yourself up? Resistance is futile."

Rhiannon lowered her sack to the floor, took the daggers from her belt, and cast them down beside it. "I'm unarmed," she said. "I'm coming up." She ascended the staircase that led up to the balcony and which she had bypassed when entering the room.

On the balcony were two Thalmor soldiers, one of whom was pinning Malborn's arms behind his back, and a Thalmor wizard. "Foolish human," the wizard said, smirking. "Your death was assured the moment you crossed the Thalmor. Seize her!"

The unengaged soldier reached out to take hold of Rhiannon… and she hip-tossed him over the balcony. The wizard's mouth was still dropping open with shock when Rhiannon reached him, swept his legs out from under him, brought her right hand across to the side of his head and, as he fell, thrust down to drive his head into the balcony rail with shattering force.

The third soldier released his grip on Malborn and fumbled at his belt for his mace. Malborn turned and grappled with him. The Thalmor guard pushed Malborn away but, in so doing, left himself wide open to Rhiannon. She delivered a chop to his throat with the edge of her hand; not the fake chop, with her hand slack and no real force behind the blow, that she would have used in the ring but a vicious knifehand strike with all her strength behind it. His eyes bulged out, his mouth opened very wide, and he clutched at his neck with both hands. Just to make sure Rhiannon caught him by the shoulders, performed a leg-sweep, and tossed him over the balcony too.

Malborn stood and stared at her. "That was… astonishing!" he exclaimed. "How did you do that?"

"I told you I didn't need weapons," Rhiannon said, trying to keep herself from shaking as what she had done sunk in. "How did you get caught?"

"A guard came in and said something to Elenwen about unfamiliar footprints in the courtyard," Malborn said, "and she looked around the guests and must have noticed you were missing. The door behind me was the only feasible way you could have gone and, when she challenged me, I couldn't bluff well enough. Now I'm going to be running from the Thalmor for the rest of my life."

Rhiannon glanced down at her boots, with their fairly square toes, and then at the extremely pointed toes of the shoes on the unconscious, or quite possibly dying, Thalmor wizard on the floor. The metal boots of the soldiers were of a similar style and it would have been easy to spot that her footprints didn't belong. Presumably the guard who had noticed them had been the one returning to the main Embassy building after delivering the serving maid to the torturers.

She went to the edge of the balcony and looked down, to check on the Elves she had thrown over the rail, and saw that one of them had landed, head first, on the rack and smashed through it. His legs, still sticking out from the broken frame, had flopped over limply and were absolutely still. Probably dead, she deduced, and even if he wasn't he would be out of action for a very long time. The other one might have survived the fall but he hadn't survived Etienne cutting his throat.

"I can't get the trapdoor open," Etienne called up to her. "We need to find a key."

"On it," Rhiannon replied, and she bent to search the body of the wizard. She realized that there was a visible depression at his temple, where she had slammed it into the rail, and he didn't seem to be breathing. She felt a surge of nausea but suppressed the feeling; it was getting easier to cope with the after-effects of killing with every new fatal encounter. In the pockets of the wizard's robes she found yet another potion and two keys. One of them matched the one she had used to open the door to this torture chamber; hopefully the other might prove to be the one she sought.

It was. Rhiannon retrieved her daggers, and her sack of loot, and picked up a mace that had belonged to one of the guards. A minute later she and her three companions were climbing down a ladder into a passageway, cut through stone and with wooden supports bracing its ceiling, which led into a natural cave illuminated by phosphorescent fungi. The floor of the cave was some ten feet below the artificial passageway and was littered with human skeletons and fragments of skeletons. And, in the middle of the horrid debris, there stood a large frost troll.

The creature looked up at them, growled, and jumped up and down. Rhiannon guessed that it was the Thalmor's corpse disposal system and was expecting a body to be tossed down to it. From her past encounters with trolls she knew it would be a formidable foe. She did have one weapon at her disposal that hadn't been available the first time she had fought a troll; she had learnt the spell 'Flames' and could project a jet of fire from her fingertips. And, as long as they stayed where they were, the troll couldn't reach them.

"Stay up here," she advised the others. "I'll deal with this." She began to shoot fire down at the troll. It endured the flames for a short while and then backed away, retreating to a distance at which it was beyond the reach of the spell. It would, Rhiannon knew, regenerate and before long it would be back at full strength. She had no option but to draw weapons, jump down, and attack.

Mace in one hand, dagger in the other, she charged the troll. Just before she reached it she Shouted "SU!" This time the Shout worked as advertised. Her weapons flashed, striking far more rapidly than she could have managed without the benefit of the Thu'um, and she carved great gashes in the troll's hide. It struck back with its clawed hands and Rhiannon couldn't avoid all its blows. She was wearing no armor and soon the party dress was torn and stained with her blood. Just as the Shout was wearing off, and Rhiannon was beginning to think she was going to lose this fight and die, the troll sank to its knees and Rhiannon was able to bring down the mace in a killing blow to the back of its head.

She bent over, panting, and saw drops of her blood falling onto the snow at her feet. Snow? In a cave? She looked up and saw a shaft overhead through which she could make out the night sky. Perhaps the troll had fallen through a sinkhole, and become trapped here, and there was no other exit. But no, the Thalmor would never have bothered to dig out a tunnel that led only to a dead end.

"Sorry I wasn't in time to give you a hand," Etienne said from behind her, "but you managed anyway." He was holding his sword and dagger, Rhiannon saw when she turned, and it occurred to her that she might have been a little too trusting; just because someone was being tortured by the bad guys didn't automatically make them a good guy. But if he had been going to turn on her, to gain for himself what she had stolen from the Embassy, the moment to do so would have been before she noticed him.

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon, forgetting her role momentarily and slipping back into her natural accent and idioms. "I managed." She cast Healing on herself and felt the scratches from the troll's claws closing up. The spell could do nothing about the rents in her clothes, and it hadn't occurred to her to take any of Elenwen's clothes from the wardrobes in the Solar, but luckily her bra and knickers were undamaged and she wasn't showing anything that would count as a wardrobe malfunction.

"Dibella's tits, this snow is cold," Etienne exclaimed, hopping from one foot to the other.

"I have the shoes I wore to the Ambassador's Ball in my sack," Rhiannon offered. "They might fit you." She had healed her wounds completely, by now, and set off to where she had dropped the sack before attacking the troll. As she did so she saw that there was an alcove underneath where the passage from the interrogation chamber emerged into the cave. A lit lantern inside the alcove illuminated the cave; it hadn't occurred to her at first but the light in the area was brighter than could have been accounted for by a few phosphorescent fungi. Beside the lantern lay a dead body.

"Looks like that character was on his way in, not out," Etienne said. "They wouldn't dump a corpse still wearing mage robes and with a lit lantern. Can't have known about the troll. Trying to rob this place would be insane so I'd guess he was hoping to rescue somebody. Not me, he's not one of my lot, so the poor bastard he was looking for must be one of these chewed-up skeletons." He stood beside the body and looked down at it. "Robes are too ripped to be any use but he's wearing boots – and they look to be about my size."

"Help yourself," Rhiannon said, and she went to assist Malborn and the serving girl down from the ledge above.

A few minutes later everyone had left the cave and were out in the open air. Rhiannon had no idea where they were, at first, as it was long after sunset by this time. The nights in Skyrim weren't as dark as on Earth, even when the two moons weren't visible, and it was light enough to see where you were going, but she couldn't make out any landmarks. Then she saw beams of light shining into the sky and recognized them as coming from Meridia's Beacon. If she could make it to the Beacon she'd have no difficulty in finding her way to Solitude.

"There's something you need to know," she told Etienne, as the small party trotted along the path that led to the road between Solitude and Dragon Bridge. "I overheard that interrogator, Rulindil, talking with an informant and I think it was about you. The one who wasn't Rulindil was offering to help with the questioning and he said 'He'd talk to me. He trusts me.' Then Rulindil offered to put him in a cell with you, and undo your shackles, but the other bloke wouldn't go for that. I think he must be the one who got you caught."

"Some bastard sold me out? Who? Did you see him?"

"No, but I heard Rulindil call him 'Gissur'," Rhiannon said.

"Gissur? But… he's one of the Guild," Etienne said, sounding shocked. "A Guild brother sold me out to the Thalmor? He's due a trip to the bottom of the canal when I get back to Riften."

"He'll sleep with the fishes, is it?" Rhiannon said, remembering Catatonia's Godfather-inspired song _I Am The Mob_. Then realization struck her, a cold chill ran down her spine, and she halted in her tracks. Delphine had been going to recruit assistance from the Thieves' Guild in Riften. If one of their number had been a Thalmor agent, then she'd have been betrayed from the start. There had been a Thalmor dossier on Delphine, which Rhiannon still hadn't had a chance to read, in with the one about dragons. It could have been Delphine in the cells, or on the rack; or Rhiannon herself.

"You picked a bad time to get lost, friends," a gruff voice broke into Rhiannon's thoughts. "Kill the men, take the women alive. The tall one might even make a useful recruit, once we've had her enough times that she learns to like it."

There were three of the bandits; a big man in metal armor and horned helmet, a smaller man in furs who bore a battle-axe, and a third, armed with a bow, who was further away on a rocky slope that overlooked the path. The one in the heaviest armor, presumably the leader, had been the one speaking. As the bandits closed in, and the Elf girl screamed in terror, the bandit chief reached back over his shoulder and took hold of a massive war-hammer that was slung there.

"You picked a bad time to piss me off," Rhiannon said, letting her loot-sack fall to the ground. She was carrying her mace in her right hand and so she didn't need to take time to draw it. She sprang forward and reached the bandit chief before he could bring his hammer into a striking position. Rhiannon's first blow shattered his elbow and her second sent his horned helmet flying from his fractured skull.

The one with the axe had gone for Etienne, who was defending himself with sword and dagger and seemed to be coping, but the other bandit loosed an arrow and struck Malborn as the two Wood Elves tried to run. Rhiannon went for the bowman, dodging as she saw an arrow being aimed at her, and reached her target without being hit. She raised her mace…

…and then saw that it wasn't a bowman, it was a bow-woman. A tall girl, nearly Rhiannon's own height, with her head shaved except for a Mohawk-style top-knot. Rhiannon remembered other bandit's words, 'The tall one might even make a useful recruit, once we've had her enough times that she learns to like it', and realized that this girl might have been a captive repeatedly raped until her will had been broken and she'd joined her captors' gang.

With that in mind Rhiannon could no longer bring herself to strike a lethal blow. Instead she seized the woman's bow arm, dropped the mace, and, as the archer grabbed for a dagger from her belt, Rhiannon pulled her into a rising knee-strike that drove the breath from the bandit girl's lungs. A rabbit-punch to the back of the neck sent the girl sprawling face-first into the snow. Rhiannon bent and scooped up dagger and bow, tossed the dagger off into the darkness, picked up her mace and then ran to Etienne's aid.

He seemed to be barely holding his own against the axe-wielding bandit, managing to fend off the battle-axe's swings but not getting a chance to strike back. Rhiannon's arrival tipped the scales decisively and, unable to defend himself against opponents on two sides, the bandit went down in seconds.

Next Rhiannon went to Malborn. He had been hit in the backside by the arrow. The serving girl, whose name Rhiannon still hadn't learnt, was fussing over the wound but achieving nothing. Pushing the arrow through was, obviously, impossible and so Rhiannon grabbed the shaft, pulled the arrow out – praying that it wasn't barbed – and then, as Malborn howled with pain, cast her Healing Hands spell.

Once he'd stopped yelling, and the blood had stopped flowing, Rhiannon thrust a healing potion into his hands and went back to the bandit woman. She had managed to get to her feet but that was all.

"I yield, I yield," the girl gasped out as Rhiannon approached. "Please don't kill me."

Rhiannon looked her over. They weren't all that different in height and overall build. The woman wore lightweight hide armor, that looked as if it might well fit Rhiannon, and it was in much better shape than the party dress. There was a movie quote to fit the situation and Rhiannon couldn't resist using it.

"I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle."

"What? I don't understand," the bandit said.

"Take off your armor, and your quiver," Rhiannon clarified, "and give them to me." She thought she saw alarm on the girl's face, although it was hard to be sure in the dim light, but it would be understandable. "You can have this dress," Rhiannon went on, to allay any fears. "It's torn but you'll just have to cope. Tell people you were attacked by a troll, which is how the dress got torn, and they won't know you're a bandit. Maybe you can make an honest life for yourself somewhere."

The woman obeyed, although with obvious reluctance, and Rhiannon pulled off her torn and bloodstained party apparel. They exchanged garments and Rhiannon pulled on the armor. As her head emerged she saw that the bandit girl had drawn another dagger from somewhere, perhaps a boot, and was lunging to catch Rhiannon while she was hampered by the half-donned leathers.

"FUS RO DAH!" The armor didn't hinder Rhiannon using a Shout. The full power of Unrelenting Force struck the bandit, blasted her off her feet, and sent her flying backward to crash into a boulder. Rhiannon finished pulling on the armor and, as soon as she could move freely, snatched up her mace and ran to where the bandit lay.

There had been no need to rush. The woman wasn't going anywhere. A quick examination showed Rhiannon that the impact with the rock had broken the bandit's neck.

"Stupid," Rhiannon muttered. She hadn't wanted to kill the girl and, if she hadn't acted so rashly, there would have been no need. Maybe she'd been in love with one of the dead male bandits and been trying to get revenge, maybe she'd thought she couldn't pass as an innocent – the Mohawk was something of a give-away, it being a style Rhiannon had seen only on bandits here – and had seen fighting as her only option. Rhiannon didn't know and would never find out.

"What in Oblivion was that?" Etienne called, as he came up the slope toward her. "You shouted at her and it hit her like a charging mammoth. Was it… the Voice, like Ulfric Stormcloak used to kill High King Torygg?"

"It was," Rhiannon admitted. "That's how I could risk taking on the Thalmor guards without weapons. I had the Voice in reserve."

"Then you must be… the Dragonborn," Etienne deduced. "I heard there was a Dragonborn again but I thought it was Ria of the Companions."

"My real name is Rhiannon," she revealed, as she slung the quiver of the dead bandit's bow over her shoulder, "but I'd rather you didn't tell anyone I was here. You were rescued by Hanna, Countess of Narnia, from High Rock. I don't want the Thalmor to know where to look."

"Don't blame you," said Etienne. "Don't worry, I won't mention you by name, even to the others in the Guild. Certainly not until Gissur is dead, and probably not even after that. He might not be the only turncoat." Etienne was wearing a fur jerkin now, taken from a dead bandit, and had acquired the bandit's boots to replace those that had belonged to the dead mage in the cave. He was beginning to look more like a dashing rogue and less like a beggar. "If you've finished with… her, we'd better be moving on."

A little further along the road Rhiannon recognized the path that led to the Beacon. "You go on without me," she said to the others. "I want to stop off at Meridia's temple for a while." She hadn't intended to say that and raised her eyebrows as she wondered why the words had come out of her mouth.

Etienne's eyebrows mirrored hers. "Meridia's temple? I wouldn't have taken you for a Daedra worshipper," he said, "but I suppose she's about the best of them, except for Nocturnal, and maybe Azura."

"I'm not a worshipper," Rhiannon said. "I just… know my way around the temple. It will make a good place for me to rest up before I head back to… my companions." That made sense, she supposed, although she still didn't know why she had said it. Her subconscious, she thought, over-riding her rational mind as tiredness, and the come-down from an adrenalin high, began to interfere with her ability to think straight. She went along with it, whatever the reason, and said her goodbyes to the others and then set off for the temple.

A few minutes later she was climbing the steps to the platform on which the statue of Meridia, and the plinth that held Meridia's Beacon, stood. And, as she approached the Beacon, a familiar voice spoke to her.

"So, my Champion, you have come at last," Meridia said. "I have been calling you all day but, as you have set aside Dawnbreaker, it has been hard to get through to you."

"You've been calling me, is it? Why?"

"I have important news for you," Meridia explained, "about your parents. They have been brought to Skyrim."

"My parents? How?"

"I shall tell you more," said Meridia, "but only after I raise you to somewhere we can speak in absolute privacy." As she spoke Rhiannon felt herself leaving the ground and ascending into the air.

"Now we can talk," Meridia said, appearing in front of Rhiannon in the form of a brightly-glowing sphere of pure light. "When last we spoke you asked me to return you to your world. I told you it was beyond my power, and you accepted that, but the very fact that you had been brought here from another world intrigued me. I sought to find out more and discovered that your presence is the result of a pact between Akatosh and Clavicus Vile."

"Clavicus Vile?" Rhiannon tried to remember what she had read about that Daedric Prince in the book in which she had found information on Meridia. "He grants wishes, is it?"

"He does," Meridia confirmed, "although usually in a way that brings woe to the wisher. In your case he was constrained by Akatosh not to do you any harm, other than bringing you to Skyrim – although I believe he did deposit you in an inauspicious, indeed hazardous, place and time."

"He did," Rhiannon said, remembering. "But what has he to do with my parents?"

"Patience, child," said Meridia. "When the dragons returned, and the need arose for a Dragonborn, Akatosh was at a loss. The line of the Dragonborn in Tamriel had died out with Martin Septim. Akatosh searched for one who could fill the role, through all of time and space, until he found you. There were other possibilities, I gather, but only you made a wish that could be used to bring you here. Akatosh could not grant that wish himself and so he called upon Clavicus Vile, in whose sphere the granting of wishes lies, and prevailed upon him to grant yours. In so doing he unwittingly created a link that meant that, when your mother wished to know what had happened to you, Vile was able to grant that wish also. And he did so by transporting your parents, too, to Skyrim. This took place almost simultaneously with your cleansing of this temple, although I was not aware of it at the time."

"So my parents are… where? In Helgen?"

The sphere of light bobbed from side to side in a way that implied Meridia was shaking her head. "No," said the Daedric Prince. "They, too, were positioned so that they would be in danger of execution. They escaped that fate only to fall into the hands of the Forsworn. At present they are in no immediate danger but could not be said to be safe and secure."

"I have to rescue them!" Rhiannon cried.

"You do," Meridia agreed, "and there is no time to lose. You must go at once to Markarth and find a way to establish relations with the Forsworn. If you delay you will lose your best chance to make peaceful contact and rescuing your parents will be much harder."

"But… I have to take these dossiers to Delphine," Rhiannon protested. "I haven't even read them yet, so I don't know how urgent that is."

"Follow my advice," said Meridia. "Return now to the place where you fought the bandits. Higher up the hill from there you will find their camp, deserted now, and you can rest there for the night. Fear not being surprised asleep, for I shall watch over you, and awaken you if any danger threatens. In the morning go to Dragon Bridge, seek out a courier there, and entrust the dossiers to him for delivery. Then go directly to Markarth. I shall inscribe a route upon your map. Follow it, as best you can, and you shall encounter little to trouble you upon the journey."

"Delphine won't be happy about some random courier reading those dossiers," Rhiannon pointed out. "One of them is about her and I'd bet she wouldn't want anyone else to see it."

"And he will not," Meridia promised. "My power to intervene in the mortal sphere is limited, in the absence of an Oblivion Gate, but I have power over light. He will see them only as blank pages. Write a letter to Delphine explaining your absence. That, too, I shall obscure from the sight of mortals other than her and your redoubtable companion Jenassa. I suggest, however, that you tell Jenassa not to seek you out in Markarth but to stay with Delphine. She might prove to be a liability, despite her competence, if you seek to convince the Forsworn that you come in peace."

Meridia had a point, Rhiannon agreed; Jenassa did seem to have a tendency to stab first, talk later. Then a thought struck her. "Did you push me into picking up the pen and paper, is it?"

"I did," Meridia confirmed. "I foresaw the need and planted the thought in your head. I was able to do so only because the Thalmor Embassy is not far away from this temple. At a greater distance I could not have influenced you. Once you leave Haafingar Hold you will be beyond my reach and will not be able to avail yourself of my guidance."

"Well, thanks for what you've done, anyway," said Rhiannon. "You can put me down now."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon put down her pen. Writing the letter had been a major undertaking. She had never used a quill pen and inkwell before – in fact she rarely used even a ball-point, as either texting or typing on her lap-top were her normal methods of written communication – and she had struggled to produce legible results. She'd succeeded in the end, though, and the letter was ready.

And she was ready for bed. She had eaten, a venison stew that had been bubbling in a pot above the bandits' fire and that hadn't been unattended long enough to have burned, and had read the dossiers she had acquired. They had made interesting reading, particularly the one about Delphine, but the dossier on dragons had confirmed that the Thalmor knew no more about the return of the dragons than Delphine did; less, in fact.

At least she was fairly well equipped for her mission to Markarth. She had a sword now, a fine Elven weapon, that had been worn as a side-arm by the big bandit she had slain with her mace. His war-hammer, too unwieldy for her to use effectively, she'd salvaged anyway because it held a Shock enchantment. It would be valuable, if sold, or alternatively she could Disenchant it to learn how to endow other weapons with that power. And she had a passable bow, a score of arrows, three daggers and a mace, plus a good stock of potions. The bandit girl's armor fit her reasonably well and would serve until she could recover the Savior's Hide. All she lacked was a companion.

She felt lonely, now the others had gone, and if Etienne had been here she'd have been seriously tempted to invite him into her bed; even though her period hadn't quite finished, and she still hadn't sorted out how sex outside of marriage was regarded in this society. Probably it was for the best that he had gone his own way. But she would have felt much better if Jenassa were here.

For a moment she considered making a wish to that effect but rejected the idea. Clavicus Vile sounded as if he shared with the Vengeance Demons from the Buffyverse the tendency to interpret wishes in the worst possible way. She'd be well advised to avoid the 'W' word, not just now but for as long as she was in Skyrim, in case he was listening in. She put the thought aside, took off her weaponry, lay down on a bed-roll and, within minutes, was asleep.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Two days later, after some hard traveling, she was at the gates of Markarth. Meridia's route had, indeed, been fairly trouble-free. The only things that had bothered her had been three wolves, one of those horrible rat-like skeevers, and a bear. The smaller predators she had killed without much trouble; the bear she had been able to calm with the Kyne's Peace Shout long enough for her to get out of its territory. She'd even stumbled upon a half-buried chest containing some valuable treasure.

Not too dangerous a journey, thankfully, but it had been arduous. She was tired, very tired, when she reached the city and wanted nothing more than to find an inn and collapse into a bed. The guards at the gates told her that there was a suitable establishment, the Silver-Blood Inn, almost immediately opposite the gate within the city. She thanked them and went through…

…just in time to witness a murder.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

· _Mae hi wedi cachi arna i_ = I'm buggered

· _mochyn_ = swine

English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

· _Sahloknir,_ _krii daar joorre_ = Sahloknir, kill these mortals

· _Yol Toor Shul_ = Fire Inferno Sun


	9. Do Not Collect 200 Septims

**Nine: Do Not Collect 200 Septims**

"She's crazy," Delphine said, shaking her head as she read the letter. "Rushing off on her own like that – she'll get herself killed."

"What she lacks in wisdom, she makes up for in courage," Jenassa said, "and you had no doubts about her competence when you persuaded her to infiltrate the Thalmor Embassy."

"That was just for one short operation," Delphine said, "and I made sure she was as well prepared as possible. But setting off on her own to Markarth… she has no wilderness survival skills at all. She can't butcher a carcass, or even skin a rabbit, and she doesn't know which wild plants are safe to eat. And, really, she's barely adequate with a bow and only fair with a sword. She's fast, and good at parrying, but her repertoire of attacks is limited and there are holes in her defenses that a skilled opponent would find and exploit. I've been concentrating on building up her confidence. Perhaps I should have been teaching her to know her limitations."

"I must go to her aid, if she may be in peril," Jenassa declared. "It matters not if she is less than perfect with a sword, if I am there to be her sword and her shield."

Delphine shook her head. "She gives specific instructions that you are to stay with me," she said. "Apparently Meridia told her your presence would make it harder to deal with the Forsworn on a peaceful basis. I wouldn't have thought it possible to deal peacefully with them, personally, but Meridia seems to think Rhiannon can."

"Even so, we should go at once to watch her back," Jenassa said.

"By the time we could get there, it would be too late," Delphine pointed out. "She has too big a start on us. Indeed, she may even have reached Markarth already. I think we have no option but to leave her to her own devices, at least for the time being, as she requests. Here, read the letter for yourself. It is odd," she mused, as she passed the letter over, "Rhiannon speaks after the manner of one who is well educated, if one disregards her odd accent, but her writing is that of a child."

"As is mine," admitted Jenassa. "My hands are far more accustomed to wielding a sword than holding a pen." She took the letter and began to read, her lips moving as she followed the words.

Delphine had picked up the first of the dossiers, the one marked as being about dragons, and glanced through it. "As Rhiannon says in her letter, the Thalmor know little of the dragons," she said. "They mention a lead, but it would appear they mean the thief Rhiannon says she rescued, and he didn't seem to know anything." She moved on to the remaining documents. "Let's see what they know about me."

"I like this not," said Jenassa, still concentrating on the letter, "but Rhiannon's orders are, as you say, specific. I will obey her and refrain from going to Markarth to join her."

"Well, they know I'm still alive, and they want me dead," Delphine said, "but I knew that anyway. At least they don't know where I am. I should have adopted an alias, though; they'll find out that there's a Delphine who runs an inn in Riverwood eventually." She set her own dossier aside and picked up the next.

"Ulfric Stormcloak… not surprising they'd have a file on him. Interesting, but not relevant. I'll read it later. The last one will be Elisif, I'd guess, let's… what? Esbern? Esbern's alive!"

"Who is Esbern?" Jenassa asked.

"An old colleague of mine from the Blades," Delphine informed her. "My mentor, you could say. He was the undisputed expert on dragonlore. A little… obsessive on the subject, in fact, and the rest of us mocked him about it. Obsolete knowledge, that would never be any use, or so we thought. Well, we were wrong, and he was right."

"And his knowledge could be helpful to Rhiannon," said Jenassa.

"Indeed so," Delphine agreed, as she read on. "And the Thalmor think it could be useful to them and they don't ask nicely. I have to find him before they do. They believe he's hiding out in Riften so that's where I'll be going. At once. I daren't wait for Rhiannon to return."

"So we go to Riften? I hate that city," Jenassa said.

"You don't have to come," Delphine said, "although if you're offering I won't say no."

"Rhiannon's orders are for me to stay with you, until she returns," Jenassa said, "and so, if you go to Riften, so must I. And the chance of action will help me not to fret about what might be happening to Rhiannon when I am not at her side."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The Temple of Talos smelt like a public toilet. The light was dim, coming only from a single lantern, and Rhiannon was wary as she approached the shrine. A figure moved ahead of her, and she tensed, but it was only the man who had slipped her the note requesting the meeting. He was smaller than her, bore no visible weapons, and was dressed like a common laborer. His face was decorated with a spider-web pattern of black lines, either tattoos or war-paint, that might have seemed intimidating to some people. Rhiannon was used to hanging out with Samoans, and face-painted ring-warriors, and wasn't in the least disconcerted. She was fairly confident that the man posed little threat to her but she didn't let down her guard.

"So," she said, "I'm here. What do you want?"

"I'm sorry to drag you into Markarth's problems," he replied, "but after that attack in the market-place I'm running out of time. You're an outsider, you're dangerous-looking. You'll do."

"I'll do, is it? Do what? And who are you?"

"My name's Eltrys, and I'm a smelter worker," the man said. "I want to find out what's going on. A man goes crazy in the market-place. Everyone knows he was a Forsworn agent but the guards do nothing but clean up the mess. There have been murders like that for years and no-one does anything. I've never been able to work out what's behind it all. Maybe an outsider like you can get to the bottom of it. Find out why that woman was attacked, who's behind Weylin and the Forsworn, and I'll pay you for any information you bring me."

"How come you're so interested?" Rhiannon asked. She wouldn't have expected a common smelter worker to be looking into crimes, unless he thought he might be a future victim.

"My father was killed, when I was a boy," Eltrys explained. "He owned a small mine. Rare for anyone who isn't a Nord. The guards said it was just a madman but everyone knew the murderer was one of the Forsworn. The Silver-Bloods ended up taking over the mine for not much more than a pittance. I was too young to oppose them and my mother was too broken up with grief. I've been trying to find out what was behind it ever since but gotten nowhere. I'm married now, and we have a child on the way, and I can't go poking my own nose into things any longer. But maybe a fresh mind, an outsider, might find out what I couldn't."

Rhiannon considered. She wasn't interested in the payment, and the murders weren't a priority to her, but she did need to make contact with the Forsworn. Maybe this was the opportunity to which Meridia had referred. "All right," she agreed. "First, tell me what you know."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon emerged from the Warrens, after searching Weylin's room, and found herself face to face with a leather-clad warrior. Six feet or so in height, broad of shoulder, and with his hair shaved into a Mohawk top-knot.

"You've been digging around where you don't belong," the man growled. "It's time you learned a lesson."

"Can't we… talk about this?" Rhiannon said, sounding nervous despite herself. She didn't feel confident about fighting this man; his hairstyle made him look like Sheamus and she knew she could never have beaten the Irish wrestler in a real fight, or even made a scripted victory look convincing, as he was just too strong and experienced. Luckily the Markarth version was three or four inches shorter than Sheamus, and probably forty or fifty pounds lighter, although that still made him some fifty pounds heavier than Rhiannon and most of it looked to be muscle. This would not be easy.

"Nothing to talk about," the thug answered. "The boss says to beat you up, I beat you up. Defend yourself… not that it will do you any good." He advanced with fists raised.

Rhiannon assessed her surroundings. Behind her was the door to the Warrens, the poor quarter carved out of the stone under Markarth, a cramped area of tunnels and cubicles with uneven floors littered with rubble and garbage; not a good place in which to fight a stronger opponent. To her sides were stone walls, pinning her in. But ahead of her, past the advancing thug, there was more space.

A stream ran past the entrance to the Warrens, crossed by a wooden walkway, and on the far side was a wide flat area with the city's smelters on one side. On the other side there stood a raised wooden platform, about half the size of a wrestling ring, on which were two sets of pillories. Actual medieval pillories, a few feet apart and at right angles to each other, in what seemed to Rhiannon to be an odd location as there would be nowhere for a crowd to stand and pelt captive miscreants with rotten eggs. But she could see a way of using them…

Before the Mohawk-wearing thug could get close enough to trap her in the doorway she rushed forward and threw herself into a rolling dive that took her under the swinging punch he aimed at her. He turned and lashed out with a kick, aimed at where he expected her to be, but the roll had brought her smoothly back up to her feet and she was well clear. She raced for the walkway and ran across it, over the stream, and headed for the pillories.

"Come back here, you cowardly bitch!" the heavy roared, pounding after her. As Rhiannon went up the ramp to the pillories she glanced behind her, saw that he had lowered his guard to run faster, and mule-kicked him in the face. It stopped him in his tracks, only for a moment, but when he recovered himself and resumed his pursuit he was bleeding from a split lip.

Rhiannon reached the pillories and ducked behind one of the wooden structures. They were quite close to the edge of the platform, giving about as much standing room behind them as there was on the apron of a wrestling ring, and she felt at home there. As Sheamus-lite closed on her she kicked out, under the pillory, and hit him solidly on the knee. He grunted in pain and began to throw punches over the top bar of the pillory. Rhiannon dodged them all with ease and kicked him again. He tried to follow her onto the outer part of the platform but was awkward on the narrow rim. Rhiannon retreated, faster than he could follow, and then seized an opportunity and hit him on the side of his jaw with the heel of her hand. He stumbled and fell over the edge.

"This is my house!" Rhiannon yelled, stealing Paige's catch-phrase, as Sheamus-lite picked himself up. She moved away quickly, before he could grab for her legs, and waited for him in the center of the platform. He charged up the ramp and she slipped behind the other pillory, evading his charge, and again dodged his punches.

He swung with a right hook and was slow to pull back. Rhiannon seized his arm with both hands, swayed back out of the way as he threw a left, and then stepped off the edge of the platform and let herself fall. Her full weight slammed his arm down onto the top bar of the pillory and she heard him yell in pain.

Rhiannon's fall stopped with her feet mere inches above the ground. She straightened her legs, stood up, and released her grip on the thug's arm from sheer force of habit. As he pulled his arm back it occurred to her that she shouldn't have let go; there was no referee here to enforce a break and it would have given her an unassailable advantage, with Sheamus-lite unable to reach her, and helpless to stop her continuing to work on his arm. She'd have to remember not to make the same mistake in the future and, for now, hope she'd weakened his arm enough to give her an edge for the rest of the fight. She vaulted back up onto the pillory platform and raised her hands ready to resume the combat.

It didn't look as if it would be necessary. Sheamus-lite had staggered back, away from the pillory, and was clutching at a right arm that looked decidedly mangled. Blood was dripping from a gouge in the upper arm, where it must have scraped along the rough edge of the wood, and the elbow joint was bent in the wrong direction. Assuming he wasn't double-jointed, like Alexa Bliss, it was a hyper-extension injury and the arm would be virtually useless.

"Who told you to beat me up?" Rhiannon asked. She felt a little guilty; she hadn't expected to do quite that much damage, being used to slamming an opponent's limbs onto the more forgiving material of a ring rope.

"You haven't won yet, you mangy piece of pit-bait," Sheamus-lite snarled defiantly. He let go of his injured arm, advanced, and threw a left-hand punch. With his balance destroyed by his right arm hanging limply the punch was awkward and easy for Rhiannon to catch. She twisted the arm around and down, swung a leg over it, and forced him downward until she could put him into the Dis-Arm-Her.

"You've lost," she told him, as she applied pressure. "Give up and tell me who sent you."

He struggled, futilely, for a few seconds and then gave up as he realized that he was helpless. "Nepos," he revealed. "Nepos the Nose. The old man gives out the orders. He told me to rough you up and make sure you didn't get in the way. That's all I know."

"There's tidy," said Rhiannon. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" She stood up, released his arm, and moved away. "I could try to heal your arm," she said, "but I don't know how a spell would work on that kind of injury, is it?" Back on Earth it would have needed RICE treatment and, probably, weeks of physiotherapy. Possibly surgery. "You'd best get a proper healer to take a look at it."

"I'll go to Bothela," Sheamus-lite said, and he staggered away supporting his right arm with his left.

Rhiannon leant against the pillory and stared out over the mill-stream as she considered what he had said. She had heard Nepos the Nose mentioned before and always he'd been spoken of with respect and, indeed, admiration. A Reachman who had managed to become a successful businessman in a city dominated by the Nords. Somewhat less admirable an achievement if he had done it by having people beaten up, or killed, of course, but that wasn't the most important thing to Rhiannon. What was important to her was that Nepos would seem to have links to, and perhaps authority over, the Forsworn. He might be her best chance of finding her parents.

Or he might have her killed. She'd have to take precautions against that. A letter to Delphine and Jenassa, listing everything she'd discovered so far, so that if he asked the standard villain's question 'Does anyone else know?' she could answer, truthfully, 'Yes.' And finding out a bit more about him, so that she could make her approach in the best way, would be a good idea.

Bothela, the elderly proprietor of the Hag's Cure apothecary, was the only person she'd come across in Markarth who seemed willing to talk freely and had been outspoken in giving her opinion of the local mining magnates the Silver-Blood family. Talking to her seemed like a good starting point for information about Nepos. It would have to wait, as Sheamus-lite had headed off to the Hag's Cure to get his injured arm tended to, and so Rhiannon set off for the Silver-Blood Inn. She'd write out the letter to Delphine over lunch, get it sent off by courier, and then go to see Bothela. It might not be a perfect insurance strategy but keeping a pair of professional killers, both of whom regarded her well-being as of major importance, informed of her actions was the best she could do in a world without the Internet or newspapers. And, if anything were to happen to her, she was sure Delphine and Jenassa would make those responsible regret it.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Hold there!" ordered one of the two guards at the city gate. "Before I let you into Riften you have to pay the visitor tax."

"Visitor tax?" Delphine echoed. "Somehow I don't think Jarl Laila knows anything about this tax. Tell you what. You let us in, without paying any so-called tax, and I won't cut your balls off and Jenassa won't make you eat them."

"Perhaps those Khajiit traders would let us use their cooking pot," Jenassa suggested, "if he would prefer them boiled rather than raw."

"All right, calm down, no need for that," the guard said. His helmet hid his face but, judging by the tremor in his voice, it was likely that he had gone pale behind the visor. "I'll let you in right away."

"A pity," said Jenassa, as the guard unlocked the gate. "The other way would have been more entertaining."

"We're not here for entertainment," Delphine reminded her. "We find… the person we're looking for," she said, withholding Esbern's name as the guards were within hearing range, "and we get out. That's all."

"Good," said Jenassa. "The less time we spend in this city, the happier I will be."

"I take it you're familiar with Riften," Delphine commented drily.

"I spent some years here as a child," Jenassa told her. "It was… not a time I remember with fondness."

"Not many people think of Riften with fondness," Delphine said, "except the Thieves' Guild, and even they seem to have fallen on hard times lately. Of course, one of them being an agent of the Thalmor might have something to do with that." She led the way through Riften's residential district, over the bridge that crossed its disused and stinking canal, and into the market square.

"Make love like a sabre cat, or crush your enemies to dust like a giant!" called out one of the market vendors. "Learn a whole library's worth of knowledge in moments, or grow back that missing limb, with my genuine Falmer Blood Elixir at a mere twenty septims for a bottle."

"Ah, Brynjolf is at his stall," Delphine remarked. "I'll have a word with him first. He might be able to point us in the right direction and save us a lot of wandering around the Ratway."

"Quite possibly," said Jenassa, and then she lowered her voice. "We are being followed, sera."

"By a Khajiit," Delphine confirmed, without looking around. "She may be naught but a cutpurse… but it is possible she is a Thalmor agent. I'll ask Bryn if she's a Guild member. If she's not, and she follows us into the Ratway… we kill her."

"A wise precaution," Jenassa agreed. "Dead spies pass on no secrets."

Brynjolf was a tall Nord, red-haired and with a neatly-trimmed beard, who wore the garb of a moderately prosperous merchant or noble. Twin swords rode at his hips. "Delphine. Good to see you, lass," he greeted her. "And… Jenassa. It's been a long time since we last saw each other. You look to be doing well."

"As do you," Jenassa replied, giving a slight nod of her head and allowing herself just a trace of a smile.

"Appearances can be deceptive, lass," Brynjolf said. "The stall doesn't make enough to pay for its rental and my… other interests are going through a bad patch. Hopefully Delphine's going to put some profitable business my way."

"I'm afraid not," Delphine said, "at least for the time being. It turned out to be more urgent than I had thought and our patron had to do the job herself. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll have other things for you to do in the future."

"Well-paying things, I hope," Brynjolf said. His eyes narrowed. "You're being watched."

"The Khajiit? I take it she's not one of yours, then. I was going to ask you about her," said Delphine. She nodded to Jenassa. "Right, first chance we get, we do it."

"Sounds… ominous," said Brynjolf. "Well, anyone idiot enough to spy on you two deserves whatever they get. Try not to leave the body anywhere the guards will trip over it."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

When Rhiannon entered the Hag's Cure she saw that Bothela was busy, attending to a woman with a crying baby, her assistant Muiri was dealing with a male customer, and another woman and a teenage girl were standing in line waiting their turn. Rhiannon went over to the shop's alchemy bench, which Bothela had given her permission to use, to pass the time in a productive manner. She knew only a handful of potion recipes, and what she made couldn't match the quality of what she could buy, but making them herself saved money; could even make money, if the apothecary would buy them, and Rhiannon knew one recipe that would be very saleable.

Rhiannon didn't gather many ingredients for potions because it was too much hassle. Butterfly wings, for instance, could be used in some useful potions but chasing down the flying insects without a butterfly net was frustrating and time-consuming. She collected ingredients only when she happened upon them without going out of her way. With one exception; Hanging Moss. That was the material used in the stuffing of this world's version of sanitary towels and she had made a point of picking up as much of it as she could. Mixed with the blue flowers of a fairly common local plant it could produce Poisons of Damage Magicka Regeneration, or Potions of Fortify Health, and – importantly – Delphine had told her that for the poison effect it didn't matter if the moss already had been used for sanitary purposes. 'Eww', in Buffy-speak, but she supposed it was an efficient method of waste disposal. And the money made it worth putting up with the 'eww' factor.

The alchemy workbenches of Skyrim were designed to make the process of potion creation as easy as possible. The students at Hogwarts would have loved them. Rhiannon hadn't shown any particular aptitude for chemistry at school, and hadn't been taught by Severus Snape, but she managed to turn out a few Healing and Stamina potions, and three Poisons of Damage Magicka Regeneration, by the time Bothela had finished with her customers and was free to talk.

"Nepos the Nose? A wise man," Bothela said, after she'd agreed a price and purchased Rhiannon's poisons. Her face was tattooed, her nose was hooked, and she looked like the stereotypical fairy-tale wicked witch. No doubt that was why her shop was called 'The Hag's Cure'. "He doesn't waste his talents trying to bring back a past that vanished long ago, and that few of us can remember," Bothela continued, "but deals with the world as it is now. That is how he is perhaps the only Reachman in Markarth who has become wealthy and influential."

They were speaking Welsh; or, at least, Rhiannon thought they were speaking Welsh. She had to consider the possibility that she'd been somehow re-educated, on her transportation to Skyrim, so that the local languages replaced those she spoke already. It seemed a more likely explanation than the people of a different planet just happening to speak English and Welsh.

"Do you think he might have a way of getting in touch with the Forsworn?" she asked. Muiri was a Breton but not from the Reach, and didn't speak Welsh, and Rhiannon felt secure enough to talk freely.

Bothela's eyebrows rose. "Now why would a nice girl like you want to get mixed up with the Forsworn?" she asked.

"I've been told my parents are being held prisoner in a Forsworn camp," Rhiannon answered. "I want them back. If I can arrange a meeting perhaps I can negotiate their release."

Bothela's eyebrows rose again. "That won't be easy," she warned. "The Forsworn aren't known for their willingness to talk. Still, they're not known for taking prisoners, either, and if they've made one exception they might make another. You speak the Old Tongue and that should count in your favor. I take it that your parents speak it as well?"

"They do," Rhiannon confirmed. "My father doesn't speak it as fluently as my mother and I do, but he does speak it."

"He would be the Nord, then," said Bothela, nodding. "I had a feeling you were half Nord, half Breton."

"Quarter Nord, actually," Rhiannon corrected her. Her father's mother had been English and that, she supposed, counted as Nord. She didn't want to go into the details, it would only confuse Bothela, and she went back to the original subject. "So, how would I get to see Nepos?"

"Just go to his house and ask," Bothela said. She gave Rhiannon directions. "I used to see him quite often," she added, "but I haven't visited for a long time and he hardly ever goes out these days. Tell him I was asking after him."

"I will," Rhiannon said, just as a new customer entered the shop.

Or perhaps not a customer. She recognized the powerfully-built man who came in; Yngvar the Singer. A brute who spent a lot of his time drinking at the Silver-Blood Inn and the rest of the time, according to Bothela, beating people up for the Silver-Bloods. They'd call him a leg-breaker in America, if she had the idiom right, and he looked strong enough to do exactly that. With his bare hands.

Yngvar halted and his eyes swept the room. They fastened on Rhiannon. "Out!" he growled.

Rhiannon looked at Bothela and raised an eyebrow.

"You'd better do as he says," the old woman said, still speaking in Welsh. "It's safest that way. Don't worry, he won't do me any harm, and I can afford the payments."

"I understand," Rhiannon said. "Farewell, and thank you." She turned and headed for the door. As she passed Yngvar she saw him look at her, frown, and then direct his gaze at Muiri. The apothecary's young assistant did have a distinct facial similarity to Rhiannon, almost close enough to pass as a sister, but in other respects they weren't very alike. Muiri was a good six inches shorter, her hair was light brown without any reddish tint, and she lacked Rhiannon's muscle. Yngvar looked at Muiri for a few seconds, frowned again, and then looked back at Rhiannon. She met his gaze, giving him the kind of intimidating glare she would have given an opponent during a pre-match promo, and walked on out of the shop.

She paused, once outside, and considered her next actions. The thought of doing something to put a stop to this protection racket, starting off by going back into the shop and breaking Yngvar's arms, was extremely tempting. Realistically, though, she had to accept that she wasn't equipped to take on organized crime. Even assuming she could beat Yngvar, by no means a given, and even if she had had Jenassa and Delphine to back her up, it would have been difficult to achieve anything; without them it would be impossible. She sighed, gave up the idea, and set off for the house of Nepos the Nose.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

The Ragged Flagon tavern was a sewer. Literally. The underground chamber was part of Riften's ancient sewer network and at the center was a large, stagnant, pool. The walkways around the pool, and the raised area that formed the tavern's bar, were clear of the water and dry. A barman stood behind the bar polishing a tankard, several Thieves' Guild members sat at tables, and a burly thug in leather armor guarded the walkway that led to the bar.

"Stay out of trouble," he growled as Delphine and Jenassa approached.

Neither of them bothered to reply. They walked past him, ignoring his glares, and made their way to the bar.

"Vekel," Delphine greeted the barman. "Two meads and some information."

"Ten septims for the mead, Delphine," Vekel replied. "Information… that's more expensive."

"We're looking for an old friend of mine," Delphine said. She laid some coins on the bar top. "We know he's living somewhere in the Ratway but that's a lot of ground to cover. Can you pin it down any closer?"

"Maybe," Vekel said. "There are a lot of old derelicts holed up in the Ratway. Most of them are crazier than a Khajiit on a Skooma bender. What's this one's name?"

"Esbern," Delphine told him.

"Can't say I know the name," Vekel said, "but the odds are he'll be living in the Ratway Vaults."

A shabbily-dressed man, sitting alone at a nearby table, glanced across at Delphine and then stood up. He set off for the walkway that led toward the outside but the lurking thug blocked his path.

"Here, where do you think you're going, Gissur?" the heavily-built Guild member growled, resting a hand on his Elven war axe. "The boss said you wasn't to go outside the Flagon."

"Gissur?" Jenassa hissed, her hand going to a sword hilt.

Delphine caught her by the shoulder. "Wait," she urged. "Don't do anything yet."

"Come on, Dirge, you can let me through," Gissur pleaded. "I just need to see Romlyn Dreth. He says he's got a job for me that will pay a lot of coin. If I don't do it soon he'll find someone else and I'll lose out."

"Don't care," Dirge said. "Boss says you stay here, you stay here. Get back to where you were or get your face smashed in."

Gissur quailed and backed away. Once he had returned to his seat Delphine relaxed her grip on Jenassa's shoulder.

"Now," Delphine said, "we can act. You cut off his retreat."

"As you wish, sera," Jenassa said. She moved off, in the direction of the walkway, but stopped once she had gone past Gissur's seat.

Delphine turned back to Vekel. "How come Gissur isn't dead?" she asked, keeping her voice down. "Didn't Etienne Rarnis make it back here?"

The barman frowned. "How do you know about that?" he asked, equally quietly.

"My patron wrote a letter," Delphine explained, "telling us what she'd seen and heard in the Thalmor Embassy. Gissur getting paid off by Interrogator Rulindil. Etienne in the interrogation chamber. I expected to find Gissur floating face down in the canal once Etienne got back and told his story."

"Mercer wasn't going to have Gissur killed just on Etienne's say-so," Vekel explained. "We're keeping them apart, and keeping an eye on both of them, until we get some confirmation."

"He tried to leave as soon as he heard me mention Esbern," Delphine said. "That's all the confirmation I need. Don't try to stop me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Vekel said. "I'd have cut his throat before now, if it was up to me. Etienne's a good lad and Gissur… isn't."

Gissur must have been able to hear at least a little of what they were saying. He kept glancing over his shoulder, in the direction of the bar, and his forehead was damp with sweat. As Delphine walked toward him droplets of sweat began to trickle down into his eyebrows.

"Gissur," Delphine said, in a conversational tone. "Who's your Thalmor contact?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Gissur claimed. His right hand disappeared from view under the table.

"Not that it matters," Delphine went on. "I'm pretty sure I know already. And I can't risk you getting to her with what you've overheard here. Make your peace with the Divines." She put her left thumb behind the guard of her katana and eased it forward in the scabbard as her right hand moved to the hilt.

"No, wait!" Gissur protested. "I'm innocent! I can prove it! Look!" His hand came out from under the table, holding a dagger, and he aimed a thrust at Delphine's stomach.

Delphine's katana came out in a blur of speed and sliced across Gissur's throat. Simultaneously the point of Jenassa's sword burst out through his chest as she stabbed him in the back. The dagger clattered on the ground as Gissur's body toppled from his chair.

Two of the Guild members, a shaven-headed Breton man and a lithely-built blonde Imperial woman, stood up and moved toward Delphine. Both of them wore black leather armor that looked to be of very high quality.

"You got proof he was a traitor?" the woman asked.

"Search the body," Delphine suggested. "I'll bet you'll find something. And why would I have killed him if he wasn't? I've never met him before. He wasn't around last time I came. Which is lucky for me, thinking about it, as he would have ratted me out to the Thalmor and I'd be dead or on the run."

"And it would have imperiled our patron," Jenassa put in. "That is something I do not permit." She bent down and cleaned off her sword blade on a section of Gissur's tunic that wasn't soaked in blood.

"I'll take note of that," the male thief said. Once Jenassa had finished, and stood up and moved away, he took her place and, avoiding the blood as much as possible, went through Gissur's pouches and pockets. "More coin than he should have had," he remarked, "and gems a bit too valuable. Either he was skimming from us, or doing unsanctioned heists, or getting paid off by someone outside the Guild. What's this?" He came up with a potion bottle. "This ain't no healing potion."

"Let's see, Delvin," said the woman, extending her hand. After the bottle was handed over she examined it. "Poison," she said, "and vicious stuff too. Not anything the Guild would allow." She pointed at the dagger that lay on the floor. "Some of it's been used," she said. "Pass me that dagger… and carefully."

Delvin picked up the weapon, making sure his fingers went nowhere near the blade, and handed it equally carefully to the woman.

"As I thought," she said. "The blade is envenomed. You're lucky he didn't cut you."

Luck had nothing to do with it, Delphine thought, but she refrained from saying so aloud.

"Here, what's this?" Delvin said. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from a slim pouch, concealed behind Gissur's belt, and opened it out. "Well, that settles that," he said. "You were right, Delphine."

"What does it say?" the blonde woman asked, echoed by Vekel asking the same question.

"Description of target," Delvin read out. "Breton woman, tall, red hair, believed to go by 'Countess Hanna of Narnia' (may be an alias). Likely to be enquiring about 'Esbern' and the Ratway. Do not approach. Inform your assigned contact immediately if spotted."

Delphine frowned. "That means there were written references to Esbern in the Embassy that… Countess Hanna… did not find," she said. "We'd better move on at once. The Thalmor might be not far behind us."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon could see at a glance how Nepos the Nose came by his name. He had a bigger nose than Adrien Brody. He was an elderly man, bald-headed, with a short grey beard on a prominent chin. His chair was positioned directly in front of the fireplace, so that he could get the most benefit out of the blazing fire, and he didn't rise as Rhiannon approached. He did lay down the book he was reading, however, and he raised his head to look her in the eyes.

"I'm sorry about my housekeeper," he said, referring to the servant who had been reluctant to allow Rhiannon admission. "She's a little protective of me. Now, what is it you want?"

"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Rhiannon said, in Welsh. "I seek… I suppose you would have to call it a favor."

Nepos raised his eyebrows. "You're not what I expected," he said. "Do you mind if we speak Cyrodiilic? I so rarely speak the Old Tongue, these days, that I am no longer fluent."

"That is a shame," Rhiannon said, switching back to what she thought of as English, "but Cyrodiilic is fine. I'm bilingual."

"Good," said Nepos. "Hmm. Bring a chair over here, girl, and sit down. I'm getting a crick in my neck looking up at you." Once Rhiannon had taken a chair from beside a dining table, and brought it over to join him, Nepos looked at her intently.

"Which of the camps are you from, girl?" he asked. "The Karthspire? Hag Rock?"

"None of them," Rhiannon said, guessing that by 'camps' he meant 'Forsworn camps'. "I'm not a member of the Forsworn. But I need to talk to them and I hope you can arrange it."

"You're not?" His eyebrows climbed again. "Where are you from, then? The Western Reach?"

Rhiannon hesitated. If she remembered Delphine's briefing correctly the Western Reach was part of High Rock, where Narnia was supposed to be, but she'd dropped the 'Countess Hanna' identity as soon as she was away from the Thalmor Embassy and didn't want there to be any connections that might enable the Thalmor to link Hanna with Rhiannon. Even so, perhaps claiming to be from High Rock might be better, certainly more believable, than the truth. She compromised and gave a slight nod.

"A little town called Bethesda," she said, hoping that he would take it that she meant a town in the Western Reach. "Most of us there speak the Old Tongue."

"And why do you want to talk to the Forsworn?" Nepos asked. "Wanting to join them, are you?"

"Not as such," Rhiannon replied. "I have some sympathy for their aims but it's not my fight, is it? The thing is, I've heard that my parents are prisoners in a Forsworn camp. I want to negotiate their release."

"Oh? Do you know which camp?"

"No," Rhiannon said. "All I know is that I was told to come to Markarth and that I'd find out more here."

"An odd way of informing you," Nepos said. "Who was it who told you?"

Once again Rhiannon hesitated before deciding that the Forsworn might not be as anti-Daedra as the Nords and, anyway, sticking to the truth as much as possible usually worked out for the best. "Merida," she said, and then corrected her slip of the tongue. "Meridia, I mean. I got rid of a Necromancer for her and afterwards she told me about my parents."

"Meridia the Daedric Prince?"

"That's right," Rhiannon said. "I wasn't going to press her for more details. I just said 'Thank you very much' and got moving."

"Probably a wise decision," Nepos agreed. "The Daedric Princes are perilous. Meridia may well be the best of them but still not to be taken lightly."

'She's not a tame lion,' Rhiannon thought, suppressing a grin.

"I have no direct contacts with the Forsworn in the camps," Nepos went on, "but I know people who know people. I should be able to pass on a message and get a reply before too long." He leaned forward in his chair. "I would like to know why, if you were only interested in finding your parents, you have been going around the town asking questions about that regrettable incident in which a young woman was tragically slain in the market-place?"

"It was the only lead to the Forsworn I had," Rhiannon explained. "It was either that or go wandering around the Reach at random, hoping I could find some of the Forsworn and get them talking before they shot me full of arrows, and Meridia told me to start in Markarth anyway. I hope I didn't hurt your man too badly."

"Dryston has made a full recovery, I am told," Nepos said. "Don't worry, there will be no repetition. Give me your parents' names, and describe them, and call on me again in, say, two days. I should have some news for you by then."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Yngvar hustled Muiri off the path, into the rarely-used courtyard in front of the side entrance to the Hall of the Dead, and slammed her up against a wall.

"Who was that girl who was talking to Bothela?" he growled. "What were they talking about?"

"I don't know," Muiri said, almost in a whimper. "Her name is Rhiannon. She did a delivery for Bothela and after that we let her use the alchemy bench. That's all I know."

"Don't lie to me, you little slut," Yngvar said. "She looks enough like you to be a sister. You must know her."

"I don't, I don't," Muiri insisted. "We look alike but it must be just coincidence. I don't have any sisters. And she's a Reachwoman and I'm from Windhelm. You know that."

"What was she talking to Bothela about?" Yngvar repeated. He seized hold of Muiri's right breast and squeezed just hard enough to hurt. "Answer me!"

"I don't know!" Muiri wailed. "They were talking in some Reach language I don't speak. I heard them mention Nepos but that's the only word I understood. Please. If I knew I would tell you. Don't hurt me!"

Yngvar released his grip on her breast but only to take hold of her by the throat and press her hard against the wall. "I won't… as long as you don't say a word about this. Not to that Rhiannon woman, not to Bothela, not to anyone. If you do… we'll pick this conversation up again somewhere more private. And I won't be this gentle."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Muiri didn't know what they talked about," Yngvar reported. "She says she doesn't speak the language they used. I believe her. She was too scared to lie. Want me to wring it out of Bothela?"

Thonar Silver-Blood shook his head. "Leave Bothela alone," he said. "There's a limit to how far we can push her. Raerek's one of her customers, and he's already suspicious of us. If she goes to him with a complaint he'll push Igmund into acting on it. I get potions from her myself, for that matter, and I'd rather they weren't lethal."

"She won't do anything as long as you have her nephew locked up in Cidhna Mine," Thongvor Silver-Blood, the elder of the two brothers, put in.

"Perhaps not," Thonar said, "but I doubt if she knows anything of importance anyway. What worries me is that the girl went to see Nepos after that… and left his house alive. Every other time someone's started asking awkward questions Nepos has had them killed. Not this time."

"Did she fight her way out?" Thongvor asked.

"She walked out, smiling, and that vicious little so-called housekeeper of his said goodbye to her at the door," Thonar said. "The likeliest explanation is that this girl Rhiannon is a Forsworn agent, from one of the Redoubts, come to find out why all the killings by the Forsworn in the city benefit only… us. And if she does, and reports back to those filthy Hagravens, our position becomes precarious. How much would our leverage over Madanach be worth if the Forsworn stop obeying him?"

"If that happens then we execute him," Thongvor said. "We should have done that way back when we first captured the bloodthirsty savage."

"If we had, then we'd have had to do our own killing all these years," Thonar said. "Traceable back to us. It's easy to pull the wool over Jarl Igmund's eyes if we can blame the Forsworn for everything. Without them, what happens if he starts asking 'Who benefits?' Even Igmund, who isn't the brightest of men by a long way, will find the answer staring him in the face. The Silver-Blood family."

"Yes, you're right," Thongvor said. "Keeping things as they are is greatly preferable. So, what do we do about this Forsworn agent Rhiannon? How much does she know?"

"A lot, I would guess," said Thonar. "She was seen with Eltrys. We should have had him killed ages ago. She's been in Margaret's room at the inn. I slipped up there. I should have had Yngvar clean the room out and I didn't think of it. If she left anything on paper… Rhiannon has seen it. She was in the Warrens, poking around where that smelter worker who killed Margaret lived, and then she crippled the thug Nepos sent to discourage her. And now she's talked to Nepos and must have come to some sort of agreement. We have a big problem."

"So, have her killed," his wife Betrid said. She was very good-looking, if you overlooked the hardness in her eyes and the set of her mouth, and her jewelry cost more than a smelter worker would earn in a year. "Problem solved."

"Have her killed by who?" said Thonar. "Order Madanach to set the Forsworn on her? When she's one herself? We don't know how they identify themselves to each other. If the one sent to kill her finds out who she is that could destroy Madanach's credibility. And our tame assassination network would collapse."

"I'll do it," Yngvar volunteered.

"And then the next Forsworn agent who comes to the city would start off by stabbing you in the back," Thonar said. "I suppose I could bring in Atar and his men..."

"We can kill two birds with one stone," Thongvor suggested. "You said you should have killed Eltrys, whoever he is, before now. Kill him, blame her, and have her thrown into the mine. Madanach will probably kill her there but, even if he doesn't, at least she's out of our hair. We'll have a breathing space in which to think up something to lull the suspicions of the wild Forsworn. Something we can order Madanach to do that will benefit the Forsworn and not us. It would have to be something that doesn't harm us either, of course, but that shouldn't be too hard to arrange."

"Why not kill three birds with one stone?" Betrid said. "Frame her for a Forsworn attack that looks as if it's aimed at us… but really serves our purposes?"

"That would be ideal," said Thonar. "You have someone specific in mind?"

"I certainly have, dear husband," Betrid said. "Your receptionist."

"Rhiada?" Thonar's eyes widened and his mouth dropped open. "But… why? She's an excellent worker."

"And she's married to Eltrys," Betrid said. "I don't care how careful you are to keep our… less legal activities separate from the Treasury House business, sooner or later you'll slip up and she'll see something she shouldn't. If she passes the information on to him he'll use it against us."

"Is that right?" Thongvor asked. "You have the wife of one of our enemies working right in the Treasury House?"

"They weren't married when I hired her," Thonar said, sounding distinctly defensive. "And I didn't connect the worker who started courting her with the boy whose father we… removed, ten years ago, until he started getting nosy recently."

"Then you should have gotten rid of her there and then," Thongvor said. "Betrid is right. Kill Rhiada, and Eltrys, and blame Rhiannon."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Esbern opened the last of the multitude of locks on his fortress-like door and pulled it open. He swept Delphine into an embrace as she stepped in. She reciprocated, despite the old man's tunic being decidedly grubby, and then followed him deeper into the room once he released her. Jenassa stayed at the door, keeping watch, with her bow poised for action.

"Delphine! Still keeping up the fight after all these years, I see," Esbern said. "It's good to see you, even if it is just to say goodbye before the end."

"Before the end?" Delphine echoed. "What do you mean?"

"The end of days," Esbern said. "I warned everyone, of course, but no-one would listen. Certainly not you. And now it's plain as day and still no-one can see it. Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said, the Dragon from the dawn of time who devours the souls of the dead. No-one can escape his hunger, not here, not in the afterlife. Alduin will devour all things and the world will end."

" _Alduin thuri_ ," Delphine quoted, remembering the dragon at Kynesgrove. "The big black dragon who is raising the others is _Alduin_?"

"Yes!" Esbern snatched up a book from one of his tables. "You see, you know, but you don't understand the implications. Nothing can stop him. All we can do is watch our doom approach."

"I don't accept that," Delphine said. "We've killed dragons. They're tough, but by no means invincible."

"Killing them achieves nothing more than a temporary respite," Esbern said. "Without a Dragonborn Alduin can just bring them back, again and again, until they overrun first Skyrim and then the whole world. And there has been no Dragonborn for centuries."

"Until now," Jenassa put in from the doorway. "We have Rhiannon. We have seen her take the souls of dead dragons and destroy them utterly."

"You have a Dragonborn? Truly?" Esbern's face lit up with a smile that seemed almost manic. "The gods have not abandoned us. There is hope after all. Where is this Dragonborn?"

"Markarth, at the moment," Delphine said, "but we're not going there. Not until we hear from her again, anyway. We'll go to Riverwood first. Grab everything you need and let's go. We don't have much time. The Thalmor know you're here. We've killed three of them, since we left the Flagon, but there'll be more coming."

"Thalmor, eh? I'll have to make sure I don't leave any secrets behind for them," Esbern said, and went to his bookcase and began rummaging through the shelves of tomes. "Let's see. My _Annotated Anuad_ , I'll need that. _Fire and Darkness_ , much too valuable to leave. Junk, junk, _The Dragon War_ , yes, _Children of the Sky_ , yes… that should do. Very well, let us be off. You can tell me about your Dragonborn as we go."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

" _For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows  
You'll know, you'll know, the Dragonborn comes_."

Ogmund the Skald finished his song and, as several of the patrons applauded, headed toward the bar.

"Another song!" called Cosnach, a laborer who seemed to spend far more of his time drinking in the inn than he did working. "Give us another, Ogmund."

The bard, a tall Nord with an impressive but greying beard, shook his head. "I've sung enough for one evening," he said. "I am going to dine now, and then go home. Maybe someone else might care to perform." He looked at Rhiannon. "How about you, lady? Your speech is melodious. Can you sing?"

Back on Earth Rhiannon would have answered that with "I'm Welsh. Of course I can sing." Here, where no-one had heard of Wales, she said "I have been known to sing. The people of Falkreath seemed to like it."

"Then give us a song, girl," said Ogmund. "It will make a nice change for me to listen to someone else. Yngvar isn't bad, but he hardly ever sings these days. Give me a mead, Kleppr, and let us hear this girl sing."

Rhiannon stood up. She was feeling good, as she thought she'd made progress toward finding her parents, and in the mood to sing. "I can't play the lute," she admitted, "and I don't have the instrument that I do play." She had done the optional Music and Performance module, as part of her Performing Arts degree, but the instrument she had learned was a Yamaha electronic keyboard; nothing she had seen in Skyrim bore any resemblance to it. "I'll have to sing unaccompanied."

"As do I," said Ogmund. "Go on, lass, sing for us."

In Falkreath she had sung _Let It Go_ but she decided against it this time. Another Disney song seemed more appropriate for the warmer, less snowy, environment of the Reach. Her slip of the tongue when telling Nepos about Meridia, when she had said 'Merida' instead, had brought _Brave_ to mind. She took a deep breath, gathered herself, and then began to sing.

" _When cold wind is a-calling  
And the sky is clear and bright  
Misty mountains sing and beckon  
Lead me out into the light  
I will ride, I will fly  
Chase the wind and touch the sky…_"

The song went down very well. Her rendition received more applause than Ogmund's performance had done, even though he was regarded as one of the best bards in Skyrim, probably because everyone must have heard _The Dragonborn Comes_ many times and they had never heard _Touch the Sky_ before.

"Very interesting, and well sung," Ogmund praised. "Are you a graduate of the Bards' College?"

"Not the one in Solitude, no," Rhiannon said. "I went to one outside Skyrim."

"You should go," Ogmund said. "I expect they would accept you as a full bard right away, with innovative songs like that. As long as it's not the only one you know, that is."

"Yeah, sing us another," called Cosnach.

"That was lovely, and I want to hear more," the innkeeper's daughter Hroki said. She was pretty, extremely curvaceous for someone who couldn't have been much more than sixteen, and always courteous and friendly to the customers – unlike her sarcastic and quarrelsome parents. "I think she deserves a tankard of mead as a payment, don't you, father?"

"Oh, very well," Kleppr the innkeeper said, with a sigh. "Provided she entertains our customers with another song, that is."

"I'll do two if you throw in a baked potato with seared slaughterfish," Rhiannon proposed. That was acceptable to Kleppr and Rhiannon paid for her supper with renditions of _Learn Me Right_ , also from the _Brave_ soundtrack, and then abandoned Disney for her favorite song; _Closing Time_ , by Semisonic. After that she excused herself from singing any more songs, ate her meal, went to bed and read _The Madmen of the Reach_ before going to sleep.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Delphine went through the corpse's pouches and pockets until she found a folded note. She unfolded it and read.

 _I have good reason to believe the target will be coming to Riften in the next few days. Discretion is preferred, but elimination of the target is of the highest priority. The usual restrictions on exposure are lifted – you will be reassigned outside Skyrim if necessary, without penalty._

 _Do not fail me._

 _E_

"Exactly as we suspected," Delphine said. "Well, Brynjolf asked us not to leave the body anywhere the guards would trip over it. The bottom of the canal would fit that perfectly."

"Indeed so, sera," Jenassa said. She had left her sword in the fatal wound, to prevent a gush of blood from making too much of a mess, and now she pulled it free and cleaned it. She tucked two Elven maces, whose original Thalmor owners lay dead in the Ratway, into the Khajiit spy's dress and shoved the body off the edge of the walkway and into the murky water. It sank out of sight almost immediately.

"Efficiently done, lady Dunmer," Esbern praised. "Let us make the most of this opportunity and depart before more of the Thalmor, or their agents, locate us."

"I had hoped to spend the night here," Delphine said, "but that is no longer feasible. We'd be too vulnerable in the inn. Let's get out of Riften as fast as possible."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon was woken by her door bursting open and several men rushing into her room. Before she was fully awake hands had seized her and dragged her from the bed. She screamed, and struggled madly, and managed to catch the hand of one of her attackers and wrench it around until something snapped, but it was hopeless. She couldn't get free, her arms were pinned, and someone punched her in the stomach. She rode the blow by reflex, even in her disorientated state, but it still hurt and drove some of the breath from her lungs. The men hustled her out of the room and into the common room of the inn. Only then did she realize that her captors were members of the Markarth city guard.

The inn's customers and residents were absent, of course, as it was the middle of the night. Kleppr, the innkeeper, was the only one there at first but then his wife Frabbi emerged from their room. Her hair was disheveled and her feet were bare.

"What's going on, Kleppr?" Frabbi queried. "What are the guard doing here… and manhandling one of our guests?"

"They're arresting a wicked Forsworn murderess, my darling wife," Kleppr told her. Rhiannon had heard the two bickering enough to be well aware that the endearment was meant sarcastically. "Nothing for you to be concerned about."

Rhiannon continued to struggle. "Let me go!" she demanded. "What am I supposed to have done?"

"Shut up, you murderous bitch," one of the guards ordered, and punched her in the stomach again.

This time Rhiannon saw it coming and tensed her muscles against the impact, as well as riding the punch, and it had almost no effect upon her. Despite that she reacted as if it had been a devastating blow, doubling up and gasping, so that the guards would believe her to be incapacitated. She could sell a punch well enough to make an entire arena of forty thousand people believe she'd been winded, even if the punch had been delivered by Eva Marie, but her captors didn't relax their holds. Even if they had, and she had broken free, would it have achieved anything? How could she escape the city barefoot, unarmed, and wearing nothing but bra and pants? She would have to go along with her captors and try to sort out what could only be a mistake.

"What was that about murder?" a new voice asked. Hroki, the innkeeper's daughter, wearing a tunic far too small for her and drawing the eyes of all the guards. "Is that Rhiannon you're arresting?"

"She's a Forsworn," one of the guards replied, "and she's killed two people in cold blood."

"I haven't killed anyone in Markarth," Rhiannon protested, to no avail.

"What? Who did she kill? And when?" Hroki asked.

"Don't get involved, daughter," Kleppr urged.

"Rhiada, the receptionist at the Treasury House," the guard answered Hroki's question, "and her husband. Just before it closed for the night. Young Eltrys had called to see his wife home. This savage walked in behind him, cut both of their throats, shouted 'The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!' and ran away. Betrid Silver-Blood saw the whole thing."

"Just before it closed? Closing time?" Hroki's brow furrowed deeply. "Are you saying she knifed two people and then came in here, sang those lovely songs, and then went to bed? That doesn't make sense. And I didn't see any blood on her. You're making a mistake."

"Don't get involved," Kleppr hissed, more urgently.

"He's right, for once," his wife agreed. "Let the guards do their job or you'll get into trouble."

Hroki's intervention had made Rhiannon feel a little better. She would have at least one witness to testify on her behalf at her trial, unless Hroki's parents pressurized her into backing off, and there were others, such as Ogmund, who could testify that Rhiannon had been free of blood splatters, calm, and cheerful when she was alleged to be fresh from committing bloody murder. She relaxed and, other than making a rejected appeal to be allowed to dress, didn't resist being hustled out of the inn and frog-marched away.

And then she realized that they weren't taking her to Understone Keep, where the Jarl resided and held his court, but directly to the convict-labor mine that served as the city's prison.

"What are we doing here? Why aren't we going to the Jarl? Aren't I getting a trial?"

The guard who had done most of the talking slapped her across the back of the head. "Why would we bother with that? You were seen in the act, red-handed, by one of the most influential citizens in the Reach. The Jarl's agreed you don't need a trial. You're going straight to Cidhna Mine and staying there. For life."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

English meanings of Dovahzul (Dragon language) phrases:

 _Alduin thuri_ = Alduin my lord


	10. Hell In A Cell

**Ten: Hell In A Cell**

" _Be as strong as the winds are stormy_ ," Meridia sang, as she rode across the wild landscape that had replaced the normal appearance of her realm of the Colored Rooms.

" _And proud as an eagle's scream  
I will ride, I will fly  
Chase the wind and touch the sky  
I will fly  
Chase the wind and touch the sky_"

She had transformed herself into the likeness of a human girl of perhaps thirteen, round of face and with a mane of flame-red curls, clad in a simple dress of dark green cloth. Her horse was jet black save for white fetlocks and a white muzzle and forehead; an exact match for Merida's horse Angus. She held a bow, closely resembling the hunting bows common in Skyrim, and was loosing arrows at hanging targets as she rode. All the arrows hit their targets dead center.

Every tree, every rock, and even every blade of grass matched in the minutest detail those in the relevant scene from _Brave_. Invisible instruments played a note-perfect accompaniment to Meridia's song.

And Meridia was singing, not in her own voice nor that of Rhiannon, but in the Scottish-accented voice of Julie Fowlis.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"All right, prisoner, eyes front." The chief of the prison guards was an Orc woman, as tall as Rhiannon and broader across the shoulders, clad in steel armor and with a mace hanging at her side. "You're in Cidhna Mine, now, and we expect you to earn your keep. There's no resting your hide in a cell in this prison. Here, you work. You'll mine ore until you start throwing up silver bars. You got it?"

"Got it, ma'am," Rhiannon said, faking cowed sincerity.

"Although, with thirty men in the prison and only six women, you'll probably spend most of your time on your back," the guard added, sneering.

Rhiannon felt a rush of horror. It was a mixed prison? And… the guard expected her to be… raped? Her eyes darted around, looking for an avenue of escape, but she saw nothing feasible. She was confident that she could overpower the Orc guard, a leg sweep combined with a palm thrust to slam her head into the wall should do it, but the way out was blocked by steel bars with a locked door and five armed guards behind it. The 'Become Ethereal' Shout might get Rhiannon through the bars but she had never tested it; even if it did, she was fairly sure it wouldn't last long enough to get her through the next barred gate. She would have to fight five armed guards at once, without her sword or her armor, and too soon after using a Shout to be able to 'FUS RO DAH' them out of her way. Suicide.

"Now, off with that ring, and the amulet, and that bracelet, and hand them over," the guard continued. "No valuables go into the prison."

Rhiannon complied, reluctantly, at least as far as the ring and amulet were concerned; she had left better ones in Delphine's keeping. Her watch, which was what she assumed the guard meant by 'that bracelet', was another story; irreplaceable, useful, and in this world valuable beyond price. "The bracelet won't come off," she lied. "It was put on me when I was twelve and I've grown since then."

"Huh, we'll see about that," the Orc said. She grabbed Rhiannon's wrist and examined the 'bracelet'. The catch was semi-concealed, and unlike anything the technology of Skyrim had produced, and the guard missed it. She tugged at the watch briefly, finding that it was indeed too tight to come off, and gave up. "You'd be a useless miner if I cut off your hand," she said, "so I'll leave it for now. If you can get it off no doubt you'll trade it for extra rations, or Skooma, in a week or two. Now, you get down there. Open her up!"

The gate that led into the mine swung open without her touching it, presumably operated by a lever controlled by the other guards, and the Orc woman gave Rhiannon a shove. Rhiannon took a few steps forward and the guard let out a gasp.

"What in Oblivion is that on your back?" the Orc exclaimed.

Rhiannon turned her head. "A dragon, it is. Haven't you seen one before?" She contemplated revealing that she was the Dragonborn but decided that it wouldn't help and might attract the wrong sort of attention. Instead she continued to walk on into the prison. The gate closed behind her.

She found herself on a wooden platform, overlooking a cavern that was illuminated by flickering torches on the walls, and she could hear a repetitive clinking noise that she guessed was made by pickaxes striking rock. A fire was burning near one wall, with a cooking pot suspended over it, and a man stood stirring the pot. On the far side of the cavern a very big man stood in front of a grille door set into the cave wall. Other figures, mainly male with a couple of females, emerged from tunnels that branched off from the main chamber and headed for the cooking fire. The clinking of pickaxes was dying away as, presumably, the miners broke from their task and joined the food queue.

'Breakfast time, is it?' Rhiannon thought. She was somewhat reassured by the orderly manner in which the prisoners were approaching their meal, and by the presence of women mixed in with the men. It seemed, at least at first glance, as if the guard's dire warnings about the situation in the prison had been an exaggeration. Rhiannon didn't know much about prison life; she'd seen _The Shawshank Redemption_ , and some episodes of _Bad Girls_ , and had read Mediancat's superb prison-set Faith-centric fanfic _April 10, 1997_ , and that was pretty much the sum total of her knowledge. On that slender basis, she deduced that someone in the prison was a boss who kept order; quite probably by the application, where necessary, of extreme violence.

Extreme violence was something Rhiannon wanted to avoid. Should she try to keep her head down? No, it wouldn't work. She was six inches taller than any Breton woman she'd seen in Skyrim and if she tried to act inoffensive someone with a complex would try to push her around. Then she'd show them why it wasn't a good idea, and then several people would jump her at once… better to make it clear from the start that she wasn't a soft target.

A ramp ran down from the platform, curving along the cavern wall, to the floor of the cave. It reminded Rhiannon of the ramps that led down from the backstage areas into the arenas where she performed. She could see that some of the prisoners in the main cave area had noticed her and were looking in her direction. So…

She went down the ramp in full 'Rhiannon the Dragon, WWE Divas Champion' mode. There were no crowds leaning over barriers, reaching out their hands for her to slap, and no music, of course; she hummed Fleetwood Mac's _Rhiannon_ , which had been her walk-on music in NXT before the WWE replaced it with an in-house composition designed to sound as similar to the original as they could get without being sued, to herself as she strutted downward. The wood was rough under her bare feet, an unfamiliar sensation, but she didn't let it distract her from ensuring that her body language said 'I am the champion; don't fuck with me'.

Half-way down, seeing the stares of the prisoners below, she wondered if she had made a mistake; if perhaps her attitude might be taken as a challenge and provoke the trouble it was meant to deter. It was too late to change now, however, but at least she could present a friendly face once she spoke to the prisoners… the _other_ prisoners. Speak softly and carry a big stick was a principle she understood very well.

It would have to be a very big stick to deter the man who had been standing by the far door. He was… huge. Not quite the size of Big Show or Braun Strowman, and not as tall as Colin Cassady, but a good six feet six and built like Brock Lesnar. She estimated that he would weigh about three hundred pounds. His size wasn't the most noticeable thing about him, however; his skin was olive green and his lower canine teeth protruded up past his upper lip like tusks. An Orc. Rhiannon thought, at first, that he must be the boss prisoner but changed her mind when she saw him take two dishes of food and carry them out through the door behind him. Not the boss prisoner, then, but the boss's right hand. Or right fist. The real boss would be behind the door.

"The women's quarters, and our privy, are down the tunnel over there," one of the women, who looked to be in her thirties and was short even by Breton standards, said. She ladled some of the pot's contents into a wooden bowl and offered it to Rhiannon. "My name's Belladyna. I'm in here for poisoning my husband. Want some dinner?"

Rhiannon couldn't hold back a laugh. "How could I resist an offer like that?" She took the bowl from Belladyna; it was the apple and cabbage stew popular throughout Skyrim and she hoped that the mine was well ventilated. " _Rhiannon ydw i. Diolch yn fawr_."

" _Croeso_ ," Belladyna replied, but switched straight back to Cyrodiilic. "After we've eaten I'll see if we can find a tunic to fit you, and some footwraps. You can't go around in that state of undress. It can get cold in here, sometimes, and it will be distracting for the men. I'm surprised they didn't give you at least some basic clothing after they confiscated your armor. Did you get taken before the Jarl like that?"

"I never saw the Jarl," Rhiannon told her. "They dragged me out of bed and threw me straight in here."

"They caught you in bed? Did they raid one of the Redoubts?" It seemed that, like Nepos the Nose, Belladyna had jumped to the conclusion that Rhiannon was from one of the Forsworn camps in the wilds.

"I was sleeping in the Silver-Blood Inn," Rhiannon told her. "I'm not actually a Forsworn. I'm from High Rock. The Western Reach." There was no point in telling the truth, as it wouldn't be believed, and she was growing accustomed to her cover story.

"No trial?" Another woman, probably around Rhiannon's own age, joined in the conversation. She was about five feet five, her hair was tawny blonde, and her pretty face was marred by a scar that ran down her face and across a blank and sightless left eye. "Even I got a trial, if a fairly perfunctory one, and I was caught red-handed."

"Literally, if what I heard is right," Belladyna commented.

The one-eyed girl laughed. "True," she said.

Belladyna turned back to Rhiannon. "I didn't poison my husband," she said. "I've missed him every day for the six years I've been in here. We had a glass-blowing business. The Silver-Blood family wanted it." She bared her teeth. "A lot of us in here have similar stories."

"It was Betrid Silver-Blood who claimed she'd seen me committing two murders," Rhiannon said. "I'd never even met one of the people I'm supposed to have killed and what little contact I'd had with the other was friendly."

"Just like me," a young man chimed in. "I was sleeping off some mead in my aunt's house when the guards burst in. I don't even know who they said I'd killed." He gave a short, mirthless, laugh. "I didn't even have anything the Silver-Bloods might have wanted to steal."

"Your aunt wouldn't be Bothela, would she?" Rhiannon asked.

"You know her? Really she's my great-aunt," the young man said, "but she's my only living relative and I call her aunt, or sometimes _Nain_."

"In that case I know why you're in here," Rhiannon said. "The Silver-Bloods are shaking Bothela down for protection money. They wouldn't want you around to support her." She grimaced. "In fact, that might be why they framed me. I was friendly with Bothela and I don't think their thug Yngvar the Singer liked that."

"Then you have my thanks," said the young man, "and my apologies that your friendship with my aunt has brought you here. I am Odvan." He extended his hand.

Rhiannon took the hand and shook it. "Rhiannon," she said.

"I'm Eola," the one-eyed girl said. "One of the few people in here who's actually guilty. I'm in for desecrating graves, murder, Daedra-worship, and resisting arrest."

"You seem very… cheerful about it," Rhiannon said.

"I spent eight years in Honorhall Orphanage," Eola replied. "Compared with that, this is luxury. And I've no intention of staying long."

"Remember, they say no-one escapes Cidhna Mine," Belladyna said.

"And no prison can hold me," Eola said. "Someone is going to be proved wrong. I'm betting it will be those Silver-Blood bastards."

"I need to get a message out of here," Rhiannon said. "Urgently. I have friends who are going to be ripping Markarth apart looking for me. The problem is that they'll be starting in the wrong place and innocent people might get hurt." Not that Nepos the Nose qualified as an innocent, in any sense of the word, but Rhiannon was pretty sure that he had nothing to do with her imprisonment. Delphine and Jenassa arriving at his door, no doubt ready to resort to lethal force at the slightest provocation, had all kinds of potential for catastrophic misunderstandings. "I need to tell them to go after the Silver-Bloods."

"You'll have to speak to Madanach," a man who had not yet spoken told her. "He's the only one who can get messages out."

"Madanach?" Rhiannon queried. She studied the speaker. He was older than Odvan, his fair hair was going grey, and he was thin but wiry of build. His face was streaked with yellow war-paint, running across his eye-line and down his nose, in a pattern she had seen before. The woman who served as 'housekeeper' – actually bodyguard – to Nepos the Nose wore exactly the same markings.

"The King in Rags," the man elaborated. "The chief of the Forsworn. Our leader."

"I'm guessing he lives behind that gate, is it?" Rhiannon said.

"That's right," the painted man confirmed. "To see him you have to get past Borkul the Beast."

"Not a very… approachable king, then," Rhiannon said, raising her eyebrows.

"Uraccen jests with you," Belladyna said. "You do not need to fight your way past Borkul. Explain to him why you wish to speak to Madanach and he will pass on your request. It is likely that Madanach will want to see you before long anyway."

"Oh, so Borkul is like the Housecarls that the Nord Jarls have, is it?" Rhiannon said, remembering the way Irileth intercepted anyone who approached Jarl Balgruuf. "That's a relief. I could beat Borkul but it wouldn't be easy."

"You, beat Borkul the Beast?" Uraccen scoffed. "He's tough even for an Orc. They say he ripped a man's arm off and beat him to death with it."

Rhiannon regarded that as pure hyperbole. "My opponents submit before I need to go that far," she said, her tone making it clear that she wasn't impressed. She had no intention of challenging Borkul unless she had no choice, however, and so she sought to move the conversation in a different direction. "You're wearing the same war-paint as Uaile. Are you related to her?"

Uraccen's eyes widened. "You know my daughter? How is she? I haven't seen her for… I don't know how long. You lose track of time in here. She was a little girl of eight when I saw her last."

"She's grown up now, but younger than me," Rhiannon said. "Twenty-one, twenty-two, around that, is it?"

"So, I've been in here thirteen or fourteen years," said Uraccen, nodding. "That'd be right."

Rhiannon shuddered. The prospect of spending years in this forced labor prison was horrible. She didn't want to show weakness, though, and so she forced herself to speak calmly. "What are you in for?"

"A Nord nobleman I served was stabbed in the night," Uraccen related. "It wasn't me, but I knew I'd be blamed. So I ran. Joined the Forsworn. Started killing. Got caught. Now I'm in here."

"How come no-one escapes?" Rhiannon asked. "We have pickaxes. Couldn't we dig a tunnel?"

Uraccen averted his gaze to avoid meeting Rhiannon's eyes. "One day," he said. "Then we'll paint the walls of Markarth with Nord blood."

Rhiannon perked up at once. She guessed, from Uraccen's reaction, that the idea of a tunnel had occurred to the Forsworn prisoners long ago. A quick glance around the other prisoners reinforced that impression. They all knew something.

Except Eola. "That would take much too long," the one-eyed girl said. "I will be going out through the main gates and wading through the blood of anyone who tries to stop me."

"That wouldn't work," Belladyna said. "They take too many precautions. When they come to collect the ore, and leave our rations, they make us back away out of reach before they enter. And the inner gate is locked behind them before they open the front gate."

Eola grinned. It wasn't a nice grin and something about her expression sent a chill down Rhiannon's spine. "They'll slip up eventually," Eola said, confidently. "I have ways of… influencing people."

"They have weapons and armor," Uraccen pointed out. "We just have a few shivs. And pickaxes, of course, but they're too slow and unwieldy against swords."

"Pickaxe handles are faster," Rhiannon suggested, "and they can do quite a bit of damage."

"I like the way you think," Eola said, repeating her predatory grin. "I prefer a sword, to slice through… flesh, but bludgeoning does have its appeal."

Rhiannon was beginning to wonder if Eola was a vampire, as her comment about being able to influence people implied that she had an ability like a vampire's thrall, or possibly a werewolf. She had been tucking into the apple and cabbage stew without any sign of distaste, however, and Rhiannon didn't believe that either vampires or werewolves would be enthusiastic about such an exclusively vegetarian dish. It was more likely that Eola was just a mage with a bloodthirsty streak a mile wide; perhaps something to do with her upbringing in what sounded like a brutal orphanage. Basically, Rhiannon thought, if Cidhna Mine was Azkaban then Eola was Bellatrix Lestrange. That would make Rhiannon herself, innocent and imprisoned without even a trial, Sirius Black; not the role she'd ever envisaged playing if she'd managed to get cast in a Harry Potter movie.

"Speaking of pickaxes," Belladyna said, "we'd better get back to work. If we don't produce enough ore to satisfy the Silver-Bloods they cut down the amount of food the guards leave. Sometimes they don't leave any and we have to get by on mushrooms and rats."

Rhiannon grimaced. The thought of eating rats was disgusting and going on short rations didn't appeal either. Keeping up her weight could be a struggle and if she didn't get enough to eat the first thing that went was her bust. Normally she was a 'B' cup, which was fine with her but small by WWE Diva standards; she'd kept getting not-so-subtle hints that getting implants would benefit her career, something that she was dead against especially after what had happened to Eva Marie*, and her appearances on promotional posters tended to be Photoshopped up to at least a 'C' cup. If she went short of food for any length of time her tits… dwindled. Once, when she'd been on antibiotics that upset her stomach and made it difficult for her to keep food down, she'd gone down to an 'A' cup inside a week. In this mine, eating rats and mushrooms… she'd be as flat as an ironing board in no time.

"Someone will have to show me how to use a pickaxe," she said. "I come from a mining town but I've never done any mining."

"It's not hard," Belladyna said. "You hit the rock with the pointed end."

"I find it helps to think of someone you hate," Eola added. "I pretend the rock is Grelod the Kind. One day I'm going to go back to Riften and make that old crone _bleed_." The last word came out in a venomous hiss. "If Jenassa doesn't beat me to it, that is."

"You know Jenassa?" It was possible that Eola was referring to someone else of the same name but Rhiannon doubted it. "She's my… best friend."

"She was my only friend at the orphanage, until her aunt eventually turned up and took her away," Eola said. "That was when I decided to escape."

Was that the reason for the ill-feeling between Jenassa and Irileth? Almost certainly, Rhiannon thought, but this wasn't the time to go into it. "I suppose we'd better go and hit rocks," she said. "First, though, I need to speak to Borkul about seeing Madanach."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"You two," Borkul growled. "New bloods. Madanach wants to see you both. Now."

Rhiannon was a little surprised that the summons was for both her and Eola but she wasn't going to protest. She laid down her pickaxe, as did Eola, and then the huge orc led the two girls to Madanach's chamber.

The women's living area was almost bare, devoid of furnishings other than simple bedrolls. Madanach's room couldn't have been described as luxurious but it did have basic furniture. A bed, a chair, and a table on which lay sheets of parchment, an ink bottle, and a quill. Two barrels stood upright beyond the table and on top of one of them was a wine bottle.

"So, our two newest, and most unusual, residents," Madanach greeted them. He didn't stand, merely turned on his chair to face the two women. "A real killer, not an innocent scapegoat like most of the people who end up in here, and not connected to the Forsworn either. And someone who the Silver-Bloods think is one of the Forsworn – but I know she isn't."

Rhiannon studied the King in Rags. He was somewhere between late middle age and old age, probably a few years older than her father, but looked fit and carried a reasonable amount of muscle. His hair was white and worn long and swept back, with a slightly receding hairline but otherwise no signs of baldness, and he had a horseshoe moustache resembling that of Hulk Hogan. She assessed him as being intelligent, strong-willed, and dangerous; as, of course, was to be expected in someone who was running a resistance force and an assassination ring from inside a prison.

"The Nords have caged us like beasts," Madanach went on. "They think that makes us harmless. Tamed animals dancing to their tune. What do you think?"

"I think you're about as harmless as me," Eola said, that feral grin appearing again.

"It suits you for them to think that, doesn't it?" Rhiannon said.

"Exactly," Madanach confirmed. He sighed. "I had Markarth, you know. My men and I drove the Nords out. We had won, and the Reach was ours again, or so we thought. Retribution was swift. Ulfric and his thrice-damned Voice broke us. I was captured, quickly tried, and sentenced to death but my execution never came. Thonar Silver-Blood stopped it. He wanted the Forsworn at his call, that I would point their rage at his enemies and spare his allies. And I have. Humiliating at first, but I knew he would let his guard down eventually. That he would come to trust I was under control."

"You're having his enemies killed, just as he wants," Rhiannon speculated, "but you're sneaking some of your own enemies in too, is it?"

"Correct," Madanach confirmed. "More and more, as time goes on, and I'm making a few other arrangements ready for when we leave this place."

"You've been digging a tunnel," Rhiannon said, "and my guess is that it's nearly done."

"You're sharp," Madanach said. "Now, I hear that you need to get out of here sooner rather than later."

"If I don't, people will die," Rhiannon said. "The wrong people. The last letter I sent to my friends said that I was going to see Nepos the Nose. When I don't go back to them they'll be coming here looking for me and asking very pointed questions. I'd rather they asked the right people, starting with the Silver-Bloods."

"Your friends are that loyal?"

"They're not just friends," Rhiannon said. "They are sworn to protect me with their lives. And they're very good at it. The Thalmor sent a whole assassination team after one of them and she killed them all. I've seen the Thalmor dossier about it."

"The Thalmor!" Madanach spat out. "They promised me aid for our rebellion but when we needed their help they did nothing and left us to be slaughtered by Ulfric's militia. I'm all in favor of anyone who kills them. Hmm. Your 'friends' sound more like an organization. Who are you? Thieves' Guild? Dark Brotherhood?"

Rhiannon hesitated for a moment and then decided to go with the truth. Madanach wasn't likely to go blabbing to the Thalmor. "The Blades," she said. "I'm the Dragonborn."

Madanach scowled. "That's a Nord thing," he said. "That bastard Tiber Septim was a Dragonborn. And the Blades don't exist any longer. The Thalmor had them all killed."

"They tried," Rhiannon said. "They failed. That's what the assassination team thing was about. There aren't many Blades left, that's true," she conceded. One, or three if you counted Rhiannon herself and Jenassa, certainly wasn't many. "But we're the best of the best."

"Is Jenassa one of them?" Eola asked. "You said she was your best friend."

Rhiannon hadn't meant to give away any identities but she decided not to deny it. "Yes," she said. "She is my sword-sister, the shadow at my back."

"Then count me in too," Eola said. "I'd like to fight alongside Jenassa."

"You don't even know who we fight against," Rhiannon pointed out.

"I don't care," Eola said. "As long as you're not like those fetching Vigilants of Stendarr, trying to wipe out Daedra-worshippers, that is."

A fleeting thought crossed Rhiannon's mind about the use of 'fetching' as a swearword. She'd heard Jenassa call enemies 'fetchers' and she guessed that 'fetch' was a corruption of 'fuck', bowdlerized like 'gorram' in _Firefly_ and 'frak' in _Battlestar Galactica_. Or like Seth freakin' Rollins. She dismissed the stray thought and replied to Eola.

"We wouldn't do that. I'm fairly sure that Jenassa worships Azura, is it, although she hasn't said so straight out. And I've met Meridia. I don't actually worship her but she saved my life and I like her. Even if following her advice is what got me thrown in here."

"Oh?" Madanach raised his eyebrows. "Explain, please. And also tell me why, if the Blades are sworn to your service, you came to Markarth alone."

"Meridia told me that my parents are captives of the Forsworn, and that my best chance to retrieve them was by coming here," Rhiannon told him. "I was alone because I'd been infiltrating the Thalmor Embassy, that's how I saw that dossier I mentioned, and she advised against bringing my friends if I wanted to convince you that I had no hostile intent. They do tend to be a little… quick to resort to deadly force."

"I'll definitely fit in well, then," said Eola.

"You… infiltrated the Thalmor Embassy?" Madanach's eyebrows climbed still higher. "That's quite an achievement. I'll ask you more about that later but, first, let's talk about you being the 'Dragonborn'. What makes you one, and what does a 'Dragonborn' do?"

"We fight dragons," Rhiannon told him. "At least, that's what we're supposed to do. There weren't any dragons in Tiber Septim's time, I'm told, so maybe that's why he fought to conquer an empire."

"You fight dragons. Interesting. I have something of a… dragon problem myself," Madanach said, "but I'll get back to that. There's something I want you to do first. Go and talk to Braig. Ask him to tell you his story. Once you've heard it, come back to me."

"Braig?" Rhiannon queried.

"He's my age, or older, and wears his hair and moustache much like me," Madanach said, "but he's a lot balder than I am. He wears war-paint on his forehead in the shape of an arrow pointing upward."

"I've met him," Eola said, "although he hasn't told me anything about himself. Do you want both of us to talk to him?"

"I do," Madanach confirmed. "It will give you some… perspective on why we fight. Go now."

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Before I tell you my story," Braig said, "I want to hear yours. When was the first time you felt chains upon your wrists?"

"In the orphanage," Eola said. "Not chains, just leather straps, but I'd say it counts. Grelod the Kind would strap us down and whip us with a belt."

"She did that to Jenassa too?" Rhiannon asked.

"More than to me," Eola said. "I could pretend to have been beaten into cowed subservience. She couldn't pretend not to be a Dunmer."

Rhiannon felt a flare of anger and a desire to introduce Grelod to a Crossface Chickenwing. She suppressed the feeling and looked at Braig as he turned his attention to her.

"What about you?" he asked. "When have you felt the chain and the lash?"

"I was on my way to the execution block at Helgen," Rhiannon related, "and then the dragon attacked and I escaped. I hadn't done anything. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Most of us here could say the same," said Braig. "You know what it's like to have your life in someone else's hands, then." He sighed. "If Madanach wants you to hear my story I'd better tell you. I had a daughter, once. She'd be about your age, now, I think. It's hard to keep track of the passing years in here. She'd be married to some hot-headed miner, most likely, no doubt with children of her own."

Rhiannon could see traces of tears glistening in Braig's eyes. She began to get a very bad feeling about what he was going to say.

"The Nords didn't care who was or wasn't involved in the Forsworn Uprising," Braid went on. "I had spoken to Madanach once. That was enough. They seized me and started to drag me away. But my little Aethra didn't want to see her papa leave her. She pleaded with the Jarl to take her instead." He choked back a sob. "And after they made me watch as her head rolled off the block, they threw me in here anyway, to dig up their silver. She… she was five years old."

Rhiannon growled deep in her throat and bared her teeth. Anyone who would do something like that deserved to die.

"That's… terrible," Eola said.

Braig turned his sad-eyed gaze to Rhiannon. "Do you have family?" he asked.

"My parents are captives of the Forsworn," Rhiannon said. "I came to Markarth to try to get them back."

"Strange," Braig said. "I didn't think we took prisoners."

"I think they were prisoners of the Stormcloaks when the Forsworn found them," Rhiannon explained, extrapolating from what Meridia had told her about Clavicus Vile depositing her parents into a similar situation to the one in which Rhiannon had found herself.

"That would explain it," Braig agreed. He turned back to Eola. "And you?"

"I am an orphan of the Markarth Incident," Eola told him. "My mother and father were killed. I was only two and I don't really remember them. A Nord couple, who thought they couldn't have children, took me to raise as their own. But then, a few years later, they did have a child and they just dumped me in Honorhall."

Rhiannon winced. It seemed that Eola's childhood had been horrible enough to make Harry Potter's seem idyllic. It was no wonder that she'd grown up to be a vicious killer. It then struck Rhiannon that Madanach, unlike Braid, hadn't shown any surprise at her mention of her parents' predicament. It was only when she mentioned Meridia, and then told of her infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy, that he had reacted. Did that mean that he knew something about her parents before she had spoken? She suspected that it did.

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

"Imagine hearing a story like that, over and over, each time a different family," Madanach said. "My own story is little better. My wife and daughter were slain when Markarth fell. Do you understand, now, how we feel, and why we will never give up our struggle?"

"I understand," Rhiannon said, "and I'm on your side. In the words of a song of my homeland, ' _If you tolerate this, then your children will be next_.' I will not tolerate it. And Eola has… lived it." In more ways than one, Rhiannon realized; the song was about Welsh volunteers in the International Brigade that went to fight against Franco in the Spanish Civil War, and Eola's forcible adoption was reminiscent of the 'Lost Children of Francoism', the children of dead or imprisoned Republican parents taken by Nationalist families during and after the war.

"I'm an orphan of the Markarth Incident," Eola said. "I've been away from the Reach for a long time but now that I'm back I'm only too happy to kill Nords."

"If you want to join me, and fight alongside Jenassa, you'll have to keep that desire under control," Rhiannon warned her. "A lot of Nords are perfectly decent people and killing them would be wrong. Jarl Balgruuf is a good man, for instance, and there's a Nord woman in Whiterun who I'm thinking of asking to join me. Can you work with a Nord?"

"I have some Nord friends, or at least associates, myself," Eola said. "They are not the nicest of people, not at all, but we share the same… tastes. I can work with Nords."

"Good," said Rhiannon, and then she turned back to Madanach. "That goes for you, too," she said. "No indiscriminate slaughter. You want to prove you're better than the _cachgŵn_ who committed atrocities against your people, don't you? And it would be counter-productive. You don't want to scare off prospective allies."

Madanach laughed. "You have spirit, girl," he said. "What prospective allies do you mean? Not your Blades, surely."

"Jarl Elisif, for one," Rhiannon said. "She hates Ulfric maybe as much as you do. He killed her husband in front of her."

"From what I've heard," Madanach said, "she's a mere figurehead. Her Thanes, and the Legion commander, make all the decisions."

"You might be right," Rhiannon admitted. "I only met her the once. But I think the Countess of Narnia could prod her into standing up for herself."

Madanach's brow furrowed. "The Countess of Narnia? Who is that?"

"Me," Rhiannon told him, "with the right clothes and my hair done differently. Of course, you'll have to get me out of here first."

Madanach gave a short laugh. "Back to that, then," he said. "Very well. As you have guessed, we began trying to tunnel out of here long years ago, beginning by following seams of silver ore that appeared to lead in the right direction. Attempt after attempt failed, the tunnels reaching only impervious rock or water, but at last we broke through into a part of the old Dwarven ruins that opens into the city itself. We could get out any time we like. We'll have to get past the guards, and out of the city, so I've arranged for weapons and armor to be dropped off and stockpiled in the ruins."

"So we can leave right away, is it?" Rhiannon asked.

"Perhaps," Madanach said. "We would have been gone before now if an unexpected problem hadn't cropped up." He paused. "A dragon."

"There's a dragon under Markarth?" Rhiannon asked, her eyebrows shooting up. "I didn't hear anything about it and you would have thought people would have mentioned it."

Madanach shook his head. "Not here," he said. "At Dragontooth Crater, about half a day's walk from Markarth. Part of my preparations for our break-out was arranging somewhere we could go afterwards. I need a stronghold of my own to exert my full authority as King, not impose myself as a guest on some Matriarch or Chieftain who might come to resent my presence. I settled on Druadach Redoubt, about a mile from Dragontooth Crater, and it's ready for occupation now. We were almost at the point of leaving when the dragon turned up. It wiped out the camp at the crater, killed one of our Matriarchs and several warriors, and then it settled there. Close enough to pose a threat to my chosen hide-out and make travel in the vicinity hazardous."

"Let me guess," said Rhiannon. "You want me to kill the dragon, is it?"

"My people killed it already," Madanach said, "but the damned thing came back to life the next day. We lost nine men killing it and it was all for nothing. Do you know how to make it stay dead?"

Rhiannon grinned. "That's what the Dragonborn's for," she said. "If I kill a dragon, or even am close by when someone else kills it, I… take its soul. They don't come back from that."

"You take its soul? What, does that magnificent tattoo on your back make you into a… living soul gem?"

"The tattoo is just decoration, my… tribal emblem," Rhiannon said, "although I suppose it might have something to do with why I was chosen as the Dragonborn. The dragon souls power my Shouts. Ulfric had to study for years to be able to use the Voice, and from what I've been told he only knows two or three Shouts. I can learn them in seconds, if I find the old places where they're engraved in stone, and then a dragon soul… activates them."

"So you're better at this Shouting thing than is Ulfric?"

"I think we're equal in power," Rhiannon said, "and I know more Shouts, but he's had years of practice at using them and I've had less than a month. I think that, if we fought now, he'd have the edge. I'll need a bit more time before I'm ready to face him."

"Hmm." Madanach pursed his lips and frowned. "I think we could work together for the benefit of both," he said. "I'll get you out of here, and reunite you with your parents – yes, I know where they are, or at least where a couple of strangers of the right age are – and you kill the dragon."

"I might not be able to kill a dragon on my own," Rhiannon admitted. "I've always had my friends backing me up except once. The only time I was alone when I faced a dragon it was fighting a giant and a mammoth. I jumped it from behind when it was already badly hurt."

"I'll provide warriors and mages, don't worry," Madanach said. "You just finish it off and make sure it stays dead. First, though, I will need some solid proof that what you tell me is true. I'm not saying I don't believe you," he added, hastily, as Rhiannon bridled, "but it's my duty as King not to make decisions without evidence."

"So, what, you want me to Shout, is it?" Rhiannon asked.

Madanach shook his head. "That would attract far too much attention from the guards," he said. "I'm told that you claimed you could beat Borkul the Beast. Prove it. No magic, no Shouts, just bare hands."

"You jest, surely!" Eola protested. "He's twice her size. She won't be any use to you if he tears her apart."

Rhiannon pursed her lips as she thought about it. She had pestered Creative, back in the WWE, to let her fight against a man. They'd always refused, saying that if they had her win it would destroy the man's credibility, and the man winning would be too much like bullying to be acceptable in the PG era. The most they were willing to consider was a mixed tag-team match with her not immediately tagging out when the male wrestler entered the ring; it had been tentatively penciled-in, for whenever a storyline developed in a direction that made it feasible, at the time of Rhiannon's transportation to Skyrim. However when Rhiannon had proposed the idea she'd been thinking of fighting a mid-card male wrestler not too much heavier than her; someone like, for instance, Tyler Breeze at 212 pounds, either solo or in a tag-match with him partnered by Summer Rae. Borkul the Beast was way out of Rhiannon's weight class and would be far stronger than her.

But, she was sure, not as well trained and probably not as fast. The odds would be on his side anyway; some of her favorite moves simply wouldn't work on someone so much stronger. Her signature leg-over-arm takedown, for instance, would simply result in her standing on one leg with the other being held up high. She'd seen the video of the match between Goldberg and William Regal, in which Regal had frustrated and hurt Goldberg with technical wrestling moves before following the script and allowing Goldberg to win, and Regal had been one of her trainers in NXT and had praised her skills highly. However, the weight and strength difference between Regal and Goldberg was far less than between Rhiannon and Borkul, and technical wrestling wouldn't be enough.

No, she'd have to use mainly strikes, trips, and moves in which gravity worked in her favor. Fight him as if she was one of the lighter male wrestlers, such as Neville, or Kalisto, or Finn Balor, who regularly fought much heavier and stronger opponents and came out on top. Yes. She could do this.

"I'll need plenty of room," she said. "If we just stand toe to toe he'll win. Don't let everyone cluster around, okay?"

Madanach raised his eyebrows. "You're willing to go through with it? I was half expecting you to make some excuse and back out. I'll make sure you have room, certainly."

"I hope you have people who can do Restoration spells," Rhiannon went on. "He's likely to get hurt pretty badly."

" _Borkul_ is likely to get hurt?" Madanach's eyebrows climbed higher. "You don't lack confidence, I'll give you that. Don't worry, we might specialize in Destruction magic but we have enough Restoration spells to patch him up – or, more likely, patch you up." He turned to Eola. "I want something from you, as well. A test, and a gesture of loyalty. Kill Grisvar the Unlucky."

Eola gave a grin that wouldn't have looked out of place on a shark. "With pleasure," she said. "I'd have done it already if I hadn't been told that you don't allow killing without your say-so." She looked at Rhiannon, who was frowning, and explained. "I don't think you've met Grisvar. He's a Nord, a petty thief and Skooma dealer, and he's a fetching nuisance to the women in here. He tried it on with me and I told him I'd cut off his balls if he bothered me again."

"He's a spy for the Silver-Bloods," Madanach said. "He's been of some use to me, making shivs and passing on messages that I don't mind the Silver-Bloods seeing, but when we break out he might be able to tell them things I don't want them to know. A loose end that I want cut off."

"I want to watch Rhiannon fight Borkul," Eola said. "Should I kill Grisvar before or after the fight?"

"Before," Madanach said. "The fight will attract the attention of the guards. They won't interfere, perhaps in case a fight is a set-up to lure them in for us to attack them, but it will put them on alert. Dispose of him quietly, out of their sight, and stash the body somewhere out of the way."

"I can do better than that," Eola said. "I'll Raise him as a zombie, set him to mining, and when the spell runs out he'll crumble to ash. I've done this sort of thing before." She tilted her head to one side and pursed her lips. "Hmm," she mused. "I wonder if I can get anyone to bet against Rhiannon? And, come to think of it, I wonder what I can use as a stake instead of money?"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

Rhiannon was still considering tactics as she prepared to face off against Borkul. When she had told Jenassa that she knew Kung Fu she had been telling the truth but she was a long way from being a master. Evening classes once a week for three years, at the Cardiff Feng Shou club while she was attending the University of Glamorgan, didn't equate to going through the 36 Chambers of Shaolin. Even so she had a wide variety of offensive techniques at her disposal, including ones unsuitable for using in the ring, if she could overcome the habit of pulling her punches that had become ingrained during her wrestling career.

She had decided to fight barefoot and had taken off the footwraps given to her by Belladyna. It might be uncomfortable on the rough stone floor, even though the soles of her feet were toughened by all the running she did, but it would give her a better grip and would be less painful than getting hit by a punch because she slipped. Also, the footwraps might cushion the impact of her kicks, and against Borkul she would need every ounce of power.

"Making her way to the ring, at five feet eleven and weighing one hundred and fifty-two pounds, the WWE Divas Champion, Rhiannon," she muttered under her breath. "And her opponent, at six feet six and three hundred pounds, the Champion of Cidhna Mine, Borkul the Beast!" She hummed the opening bars of _Rhiannon_ to herself and, out of force of habit, bent forward, spread her arms wide, and raised her left leg behind her in the Arabesque position that simulated a dragon in flight and was her signature stance when posing for the crowd. In the WWE she performed it standing on one of the ring-posts, high above the floor of the arena, and the crowd all knew the rituals that were part of the show; in Philadelphia, London, or Chicago she would have been greeted by a storm of applause but here it seemed only to puzzle the watching miners.

"Ready to fight, dragon girl?" Borkul growled.

"I was born ready," Rhiannon answered, dropping back into a conventional stance.

Borkul grinned and advanced with fists raised. Rhiannon would have liked to open with her favorite reverse roundhouse kick but could see that his hands were well positioned to block. Instead she went low, kicking to the side of his leg, and connected solidly. It was like hitting a tree trunk. Borkul grunted and shot out a left jab. Rhiannon used a right-hand inward sweeping block, deflecting the blow, and tried to seize the arm. Borkul pulled free, almost without effort, and threw another punch.

For about thirty seconds they exchanged blows, Rhiannon landing three more kicks without apparent effect and Borkul failing to connect, and then Rhiannon decided to change tactics. She backed away, turned, and ran for the trestles supporting the platform and ramp that led down from the prison gate. She slipped past the uprights and stood behind the cross-beams, waiting for Borkul, poised in a Lung Shih stance with her right arm forward for defense and left hand cocked for a strike.

Borkul came on with a sure and steady tread. "You can't hide from me," he said, and lifted a foot to step over a low cross-beam. Rhiannon took a quick step forward and shot out a leg in a scoop-kick under the raised foot. Borkul lost his balance, as his leg was jerked upward, and fell back against a wall. He recovered too quickly for Rhiannon to follow up and regained his footing. "Clever girl," he said, and advanced again. This time he followed her example and went through the gap between the vertical support and the wall.

Rhiannon backed away, hopped over another low horizontal beam, and sheltered behind a vertical pillar. Borkul closed in and shot out a left jab. Rhiannon tried to deflect it into the support beam and met with limited success; his arm touched the wood, and scraped along it, but he suffered only a slight graze. After a further, inconclusive, exchange of attempted blows she tried for a wrist-lock but Borkul reacted quicker than she expected and caught her arm. He heaved, intending to pull her face-first into the pillar, and she avoided that fate only by dropping to the ground. She lashed up with a kick, connected with his grasping arm, and he released the hold. Quickly Rhiannon rolled away, faster than Borkul could follow, and performed a spin-up to regain her feet. At the end of the move she had almost reached the far end of the trestles and had no more space for further retreats; she decided to abandon the position and vaulted over a cross-beam back into the main chamber. Borkul climbed over the beam, warily, and followed.

Some of the miners had taken up positions on the platform in front of the gate, to get the best view of the fight, but the action underneath them had been out of their sight and most of them had abandoned the platform and descended. Rhiannon saw that the platform was almost empty and grinned. Excellent. She needed space up there for the next stage of her plan. She ran for the ramp and ascended, glancing back to see if Borkul was following, but he was hanging back.

"There's no point in running away, girl," he taunted, standing with his hands on his hips. "The guards won't open the gate for you."

Rhiannon had no intention of running away. Instead she reached the platform and, immediately, jumped up onto the guard rail. In a continuation of the same move she launched herself up and out, tucking her feet in under her, before gravity took over and she plunged down.

Straight at Borkul. She thrust out her feet as she came down and drove them into Borkul's chest. Rhiannon felt the jarring force of the impact through her whole body; Borkul was smashed from his feet and thrown backward. Almost all of the impetus of the leap had been transferred to Borkul and Rhiannon landed lightly, taking the impact on her shoulders and rolling, continuing on up to her feet. Borkul was down, and looked to be weakened, and Rhiannon followed up by leaping on top of him and attempting to put him into a figure-four armlock.

That would be the end of the fight, or so she thought. She applied the lock on his left arm, with her body weight pinning down his right, but Borkul was so strong he was able to resist the hold, free his right arm by lifting her whole weight with one arm, and shove her aside. He punched her in the side, hampered by his position but still hard enough to send pain shooting through her, and began to force his other arm out of the lock as her leverage decreased. He managed to lift his right side slightly and Rhiannon realized that he would be able to roll her over, as soon as his left arm was free, and end up pinning her down. A 'ground and pound' situation would follow, with her getting the pounding, and she had no option but to release her hold and roll away as fast as she could.

Rhiannon was first to her feet and was ready to attack again while Borkul was just coming up from his knees. He had used his hands to push himself up and was slow to raise them. Rhiannon seized the opening and unleashed a reverse roundhouse kick aimed at his head. She caught him solidly across the side of the head, his hands coming up too late to block, but he partially rode the blow and caught her leg before she could bring it down. Now she was in a perilous situation, standing on one leg with the other held up high, but she knew a counter. At once she spun on the axis of the trapped leg, bringing up the other foot in an enzuigiri strike to the back of Borkul's head, and catching herself on her hands before her head could hit the floor. Borkul reeled, his grip slackened, and Rhiannon pulled herself free and did a forward roll to get clear.

Once away, and back on her feet, she looked at Borkul, expecting to see him groggy and on the verge of collapse, but to her dismay she saw that he had resumed his pugilist's stance and seemed to be steady on his feet as he advanced again. What was she going to have to do to put him down?

His guard protected his head and upper body very effectively and she knew she wouldn't be able to get through until he gave her an opening by attacking. She waited for him to make a move and he threw a punch; not a jab but a powerful right roundhouse.

It was the perfect opening for an over-the-shoulder arm drag throw. She caught the arm, turned, and tried to throw him over her back. It didn't work. He wasn't sufficiently off-balance and was simply too strong and heavy for her to move. She was left holding his arm, with her back to him, pulling to no avail and his left arm came around aiming to wrap around her neck. The fastest way out was down and she dropped under the grasping arm, releasing her hold, and rolled away as he aimed a kick at her. It caught her on the back but she was moving fast enough to negate the impact and it did little damage. He followed up fast enough to just catch her cheek with a swinging fist as she leapt to her feet. It barely grazed her but carried enough power to jerk her head back and leave the taste of blood in her mouth.

Rhiannon backed away quickly. It was time to get gravity on her side again. She turned and, once more, ran for the ramp. This time Borkul followed her; no doubt he expected her to do another leaping kick and didn't want to stand to be hit. His guard was too good for her to try a mule-kick, like the one she had used on the mohawk-wearing thug, and she ran without pausing until she was nearly at the end of the platform. Borkul advanced on her cautiously, keeping his guard up, and sent out a probing left jab. She side-stepped to her left, toward the guard rail, and he threw a right.

That was what she had been waiting for. She caught his wrist with both hands, turned, and immediately threw herself into a back-flip up onto the rail. His arm was wrenched around, even his strength insufficient to resist that much momentum, but that was only the start of her plan. Without pausing she back-flipped again, off the rail, as high and far as she could. He stumbled as his arm was wrenched even further around and then her full weight slammed his arm down to smash into the guard-rail.

The prisoners of Cidhna Mine heard a sound they had never heard before. Borkul the Beast screaming.

Rhiannon released her grip, dropped lightly to the ground, and then headed back up the ramp. Borkul was kneeling, clutching at an arm that was bent at a horribly unnatural angle, and shaking his head.

"Enough," he grunted as Rhiannon approached. "I give up. You win."

The habit of celebrating a victory was too ingrained in Rhiannon for her to let the moment pass without an extravagant gesture. She jumped up onto the rail, repeated her Flying Dragon pose, and held it as the miners cheered. After a few seconds she straightened up. Her favorite quote from _Order of the Stick_ came to mind and she punched the air.

"I'm a shoeless, sexy, god of war!"

0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0

What happened to Eva Marie? Her implants ruptured. The same thing has happened to several other female wrestlers, including Chyna, Gail Kim, and Mickie James.

English meanings of Welsh phrases:

 _Rhiannon ydw i_ = My name is Rhiannon

 _Diolch yn fawr_ = Thank you very much

 _Croeso_ = You're welcome

 _Nain_ = Grandmother

 _cachgŵn_ = literal, shit-dogs; colloquial meaning, 'cowards'


End file.
